Waiting for the Sun to Rise
by jenben
Summary: ALL. ANGST. Jesse's world begins to fall apart so that it and he are left in pieces. Everyone has abandoned him. FYI: The story contains some serious topics including sexual assault and mental turmoil.
1. Grey Handed

**A/N: This fic is pretty much all angst. Unlike my other two DM stories, I don't fall back on humor—even the dry kind—very much. With that out of the way, please review and give me feedback, especially constructive. That's your job as a reader, just as it is mine. Thanks in advance, and please enjoy the story. –your humble author.**

_Grey-Handed_

"Go to the left! Go to the left! Steve! _Go to the_—aw, _man_. Steve, I clearly told you to go to the left," Jesse admonished, pointing at the television, where Mario had just died.

"And I told _you_ that I can't get the hang of this stupid controller. Seriously, how many buttons and joysticks does one person need?" he demanded, turning the new Nintendo 64 controller around in his hands. "Soon we're just gonna be plugging these things into our heads to play."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hand it over, old man."

"_Old man_?"

Jess ignored his friend's indignation and instead sent Mario into Princess Toadstool's secret tower to get an extra life. He'd got the N64 and its new Mario game only a week ago, but already knew exactly what to do. This eluded Steve.

"Now, why on Earth would anybody put a giant slide—_that you can easily fall off of and die from_—in their castle? I've _arrested_ people smarter than that. Can we please plug the Super Nintendo back in?"

Jesse fell back against the sofa and turned to look at Steve after accidentally sending Mario careening off the edge and into a bottomless pit. "Yeah, I guess. D'you wanna just go surfing instead?"

"I think dinner's gonna be done soon. Hey, dad!" Steve yelled, feeling more like an impatient and needy teenager than an "old man."

"Yes?" Mark called, making his way from the kitchen to the living room, where his two favorite boys sat expectantly on the couch.

"When's dinner gonna be ready?" the youngest queried, leaning over onto the sofa's arm to get a better look at Mark.

"Do we have time to go surfing?" the oldest asked.

"No, the lasagna's just about finished. Why don't you two set the table while I wrap up in the kitchen—and let's not see who can set the table the fastest again, okay? I haven't lost that many dishes since you boys tried to find out how many cups and plates could be balanced on each other without falling." As he walked out, Mark could hear them arguing.

"I totally won that table setting game."

"_What_? I had you beat by _at least_ the silverware."

"In your dreams, old man."

* * *

Mark moseyed down the hall at a leisurely pace a few days later. He found that, if he walked unhurriedly during rounds, he tended to give his patients a little more time. It wasn't easy; the ER atmosphere permeated every hall in the building. Even visitors walked quickly.

One of those visitors, a haggard looking mother who couldn't seem to juggle her purse, tote, cell phone, day planner, and PDA, stepped into his path.

"Uh—excuse me, doctor, but I was hoping you could go in there—" she tipped her head to the door on his left— "and find out what the doctor is doing to my daughter. He asked me to leave, but neither Lily nor I were comfortable with that. He said it was necessary."

Mark smiled paternally. "I'd be happy to. Do you know the doctor's name?"

"Dr. Ch…Chr…Travis. Dr. Travis."

His grin widened. A chance to see his protégé in action—and without any warning. He knew that whatever Jesse doing wouldn't be invasive, since that required the presence of a female nurse. Although it _did_ seem a little odd that he asked the mother to leave. However, given that she had explicitly asked the older man to go in there, he didn't feel apprehensive about intruding.

As he poked his head through the dividing curtain, he geared up his throat for a presence-announcing cough. He couldn't hear them speaking—maybe it _was_ a private matter. Maybe…

Mark stopped dead as soon as his eyes landed on the sight before him. His mouth hung open from the half-emitted cough, unable to get the rest out because of shock. There, right in front of him, was Jesse Travis fondling a girl who lay statue-like, crying with silent grief.

Jesse turned and faced Mark for just a split second, his hands moving quickly from their criminal position. Each doctor gasped the other's name before Jess walked briskly out of the room's other door. Mark stood in stunned silence until he finally heard the girl's weeping. Instantly, he went into action, getting the mother, calling for a female nurse, a psychologist, and a hospital lawyer.

He couldn't understand why or how, but Mark Sloan knew he'd just witnessed his best pupil, friend, colleague, and son sexually assault a young woman.

* * *

Both Mrs. Driver and her daughter Lily cried as Lily recited Jesse's deeds. They held hands, while Nurse Mary—an elderly and compassionate woman who couldn't help share their pain—kept an arm around the teenager. The lawyer, Ms. Hicks, took notes along with Officer Catskill. Mark sat quietly, trying to make sense of the obviously true accusations. He couldn't deny his own eyes, no matter how desperate his desire.

"He s-said he needed to check my vitals privately, so we could t-talk about stuff I might not want my mom to hear." She gripped her mother's hand tighter and choked back another sob. Mrs. Driver ran a shaky hand over her daughter's hair. "He checked my heart and listened to my breathing. Then…then…" She couldn't seem to reach the next revelation. Nurse Mary gently turned the girl's face in her direction.

"Just tell _me_, Lily. Pretend I'm the only one in the room and just tell _me_."

Lily took a deep breath, looked into Mary's eyes, and whispered, "He touched my breasts." She said it loud enough for everyone to hear, but quiet enough to convey her shame. "He said he needed to check for tumors. I asked him to stop. I told him I just turned eighteen. He stopped. Then he put his hand on my thigh. He asked—he asked if I'm…y'know…if I've been with a guy before. I told him I haven't. I asked if my mom could come back in. He said no. He started to move his hand. He said, if I told anybody, everyone would think I'm just trying to get money and attention, and that he'd find me and hurt me even worse. He said, if I stayed quiet, he would be quick and give me a prescription for something "good." Then he moved his hand…up…" Mary gasped. Lily turned away and buried her face in her mother's shoulder.

Mark stepped out of the room, too disturbed to hear any more. Officer Catskill stepped out as well, walkie-talkie in hand. He brought it up to his mouth and spoke gruffly, his disgust for Jesse evident in his tone.

"You find him yet?"

Instead of sounding some sort of alert, a group of officers roamed the halls looking for Dr. Travis, while others went to his condo, assuming he'd left the hospital premises. The goal was to find him quickly and quietly. In nearly half an hour, they'd come up with nothing.

"Not yet, sir. It's a big place."

"Don't gimme that crap. I want the pervert found. _Now_."

"Yes, sir."

Mark spoke up softly. "He's not a pervert."

"_What_?"

"I know Jesse. This isn't like him. It could be…a brain tumor." Even as he said it, he didn't believe it. The facts didn't support his hypothesis. Sure, Jesse exhibited conduct entirely out of line with his usual behavior, but only about 40,000 people every year got brain tumors. Of those, most showed at least _some_ symptoms. Headaches, seizures, weakness, pain, numbness, paralysis, vomiting—_something_. Yet Jess had seemed the picture of good health for at least the last six months! Besides, if a tumor affected Jesse to such a degree that he would attack a child, it necessitated other, more physical problems.

The officer's face hardened. "I don't care if he's at death's door; he molested that girl and I am gonna personally testify at his trial."

The walkie-talkie interrupted them. "Sir, we've found Dr. Travis. Kyle's reading him his rights and we'll have him down in a car in five minutes."

"All right. I'll meet you there."

Mark put a hand on the officer's arm to stop him. "May I come?"

"You're gonna have to, doc. You're the only eyewitness besides that girl and you might come in handy during the interrogation. What's your name again?"

"Mark Sloan."

Catskill nodded slowly. "That's a popular last name. Guy on homicide named Sloan, too. Actually, you two look kinda—"

"He's my son. And Dr. Travis is his best friend."

Officer Catskill turned to look at his morose companion. "Not for long."

* * *

Jesse seemed genuinely dumbfounded and increasingly agitated. "I did _not_ molest that girl! I didn't molest _anyone_!"

"Then what were you doing for the hour before we found you?"

"Didn't you write it down? Don't you record these things? I _told_ you that I was helping an older woman who had some…emotional problems. I must have been sitting with her for _at least_ an hour—she wouldn't stop crying. Why haven't you asked her?"

"We can't _find_ her."

They had been interrogating him for the last two hours. He decided not to ask for a lawyer, because that might seem indicative of guiltiness; he knew what they would think. They denied his insistent pleas for Steve. They assured Jesse that Steve couldn't help him and, besides, why would he want to help a pedophile? They called him names, they threatened the harshest punishments, they guaranteed his fellow prisoners would not look favorably on a child rapist. They promised him leniency if he would only confess.

Finally, they left him in the interrogation room. Jess buried his face in his hands but didn't cry. He felt bewildered and frustrated, but he knew in his heart of hearts that everything could be sorted out soon enough. With Mark and Steve and Amanda's help, the four musketeers would prove his innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt. He took a deep breath as the door swung open and Officer Catskill and Officer Barman walked through the door. Behind them followed—Mark!

Jesse ran to his mentor, silently thanking God for sending in the cavalry. Of course, both officers blocked Jesse and actually threw him to the ground, assuming his intent was to escape or hurt Mark. Jess expected Mark to protest the interpreted brutality, or at least move in his friend's direction. Instead, the young doctor's only father figure stayed quiet, and moved back to the doorway. He looked hesitant and disturbed.

Catskill hauled Dr. Travis up and threw him into a chair. "If you try anything like that again, I will shoot you in your head. Do you understand me, pervert?" Not bothering to listen for an answer, he turned towards Mark and Officer Barman. "You can come in here, Dr. Sloan."

"Mark," Jesse whispered, his face a mix of fear, hope, and uncertainty. He decided to approach the matter with hope. "Mark, you've got to tell them I wouldn't do what they're saying I did. I would never hurt any patient!"

Mark bowed his head. "Jesse…you know I saw you do it. You've got a disease, son. If you let us help you—"

"What are you _talking_ about?" He almost shot from his seat, but stopped, all too aware that Catskill would shoot from _his_ seat, only not in a figurative sense. "I haven't seen you since the start of my shift—that was six hours ago!"

"I _saw you_, Jesse—I heard your voice—and I can't deny that. Neither can you…unless you don't remember." Mark suddenly felt hopeful; memory loss is a common side effect of a brain tumor.

"I don't remember because it didn't happen! I spent the last hour of my shift, before being arrested, consoling a Mrs. Orła-Bukowska whose husband recently died. Mark, I don't know who you saw, but I swear to God—" this was not an oath he made lightly "—that person _wasn't_ me."

Mark couldn't help feeling torn. Jesse seemed so sincere, but he _saw_ the molestation in progress. Wasn't there _any_ chance he'd been wrong? Perhaps someone was impersonating him to such a clever degree that it outsmarted even the perceptive Dr. Sloan? But what about Mrs. Orła-Bukowska, whom nobody could find? The hospital had no records of anyone under the name of Orła _or _Bukowska. Over the years, Mark had trained himself very carefully to notice anything out of place; he saw with a clarity and perception that rivaled most people in law enforcement. He couldn't refuse to acknowledge what his own eyes had shown him and his own ears had heard in that examining room.

As Mark looked into Jesse's hopeful, pleading eyes, he found himself looking into the eyes of every other suspect he'd encountered over the years. Silently, Mark got up and left.

* * *

PLEASE REVIEW


	2. Frustration

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't make a profit. _Did_ forget to include it in the first chapter.

_Frustration_

"Dad…are you _sure_?"

"Steve, I _saw_ him. It was only a glance, I know, but he said my name, too, and that was definitely Jesse's voice. I just don't understand why! It's not like Jesse; I thought I knew him. If I hadn't seen it, you know I'd be defending him for eternity. But I know there must be something wrong. His brain chemicals are unbalanced or he hit his head or someone is drugging him or _anything_ except premeditated, planned sexual assault."

Steve sat back in his seat. His father had called him as soon as everyone arrived at the police station but, as a homicide detective, he really had no authority with the special victims unit. He could only wait for reports and wonder what the hell had happened. He believed his father over Jesse, naturally. Yet he agreed that Jesse's action necessitated mitigating circumstances. Right? Didn't they? He felt as confused as his dad.

"Have you talked to Amanda?"

"Couldn't get a hold of her. Remember, she and C. J. are visiting her sister in New York. She's probably blissfully shopping away at Saks as we speak. I left a message with the housekeeper."

"So what are we gonna do?"

Mark sighed wearily and looked up at the ceiling, as if seeking guidance from a higher power. "Wait."

* * *

Meanwhile Jesse experienced booking.

First, he stated his name and address to Officer Catskill, who all the while regarded him contemptuously and wrote down the information. He responded in the negative when asked if he had any illnesses or STDs (Jesse's answer only elicited a sneer from the officer). No, he had no dependents. No, he wasn't married. Then he waited while the officer wrote down additional information for the field report, Criminal Complaint form, and Affidavit of Probable Cause.

A different officer took him to the fingerprint station, where a disinterested young man in latex gloves rolled his fingers in ink, then on paper. He rolled each finger, then all four together. He rolled each thumb twice. Then he repeated the process on a different card so that both the L. A. P. D. and the State Police could have copies. Then he repeated the process a _third_ time, so the FBI could have a copy.

Another officer took him for mug shots, where they photographed his front and profile using a Polaroid. They would go to digital cameras as soon as the city found enough money to finance the purchase.

Finally, they put him in a holding cell with a couple of other prisoners who were either sleeping or talking to themselves. Despite the inner turmoil, Jesse put on a brave face, to keep anyone from viewing him as weak. He knew what that could lead to. So he sat there, counting ceiling tiles for one hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours. Waiting arraignment on the craziest charge in the direst of circumstances.

* * *

While he waited, a nurse called Mark on his cell phone to tell him that Lily had snuck out of the hospital with her mom. She'd left a note for Dr. Sloan, who immediately drove with Steve to pick it up and take it to the precinct to read over with Officer Catskill.

Lily wrote:

_Dear Dr. Sloan,_

_I'm so sorry, but I can't do it. I'm too scared and ashamed to press charges. Please don't try to find me—mom and I left town— and please, please don't hate me._

Lily 

Neither Mark, Steve, nor Catskill could believe it and all understood the ramifications. If Lily didn't press charges, Jesse could not be prosecuted, since she was over eighteen. It infuriated Catskill and left Steve and Mark with further doubts about their friend. Former friend? Sick friend?

"I still have to report this to the Medical Board and testify against Jesse there. They'll probably revoke his license. I just wish I could _understand_ it. I want to have them test Jesse; MRIs, blood tests, CAT scans—"

"I'd like to take him out back and show him what else a baton can be used for. That sicko deliberately intimidated that girl into staying silent. I am _not_ gonna let him get away with this."

Steve held up a hand. "Jon, cool it. This isn't over yet and nobody's let him off the hook; but you can't take things into your own hands."

"I've already put in a call to the licensing board," Mark added, "and we have the testimony of Mary Struthers and everything you wrote down. I'll make sure he's kept away from medicine until this is all figured out."

"_Figured out_? He'd have raped her if you hadn't shown up!"

"Something's wrong with him!"

"You're damn right something's wrong with him!"

An exasperated cop stuck her head into the room. "Hey! Would you guys knock it off? I'm trying to take somebody's statement and I can't hear her over you."

"Sorry, Mel."

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

Mark looked at the door while asking, "What do we do in the interim?"

"We have to release him," Jon managed through clenched teeth. He clenched his teeth a lot. His dentist hated him. "And we have to find Lily and convince her to press charges. Doc, she kind of took to you; d'you mind helping us when we locate her?"

"Not at all."

They waited, looking at each other, hoping Lily might suddenly appear. No one wanted to get up, because that would signal releasing a sexual predator back onto the street. A sexual predator that two of the room's occupants had grown to love. A sexual predator who _had_ to be ill and disturbed. Or frightfully brilliant.

* * *

Jesse sat in the psychologist's office at Mark's behest, having already gone through a blood test and a CAT scan. His only reason for submitting to such insanity was to convince his mentor of his innocence. The suspension without pay and state board action didn't frustrate, anger, and _hurt_ him as much as his friends' revulsion and abhorrence.

"So, what happened on 24 September?" Dr. Parsons asked Dr. Travis. Jess had to restrain from rolling his eyes. The stupid shrink was always acting British. He mixed up the day and month in his dates, called chips "crisps," and used British spelling. Nobody liked him, but he performed his job well.

"24 September? That was—what—two days ago? Well, um, _my life started falling apart_."

"And why is that?"

"_Why_? Because I've been mistaken for a _pedophile_!" Lily's technical status as an adult didn't make much of a difference to Jesse. "I spent an hour trying to comfort a Polish woman and I don't _speak_ Polish. But nobody believes me."

"Dr. Sloan is not known for making up stories."

"I'm not saying he did! I'm saying he's mistaken. Or that I have some sort of evil twin." Holy cow! He had a real-life doppelganger! But, they only existed in rumors and urban legends. Could it be possible…?

After everything he'd experienced since moving from tranquil Illinois to spastic L. A., of _course_ it was possible. Heck, for all he knew, a mummy could be roaming the basement and Buffy the Vampire Slayer lived next door. Well, assuming she'd changed her name to Mrs. Doherty, aged several decades, and begun growing chin hair. Or…

"Or…" he paused. That was it! Why hadn't he thought of that before? "I'm being impersonated! Someone wants to destroy me!"

Dr. Parsons raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Someone is impersonating you sexually assaulting a patient while, at the same time, you are comforting a non-native English speaker who subsequently can't be found?"

Well, _sure_, when he put it like that, of _course_ it sounded ludicrous. "Look, the bottom line here is that I am _not_ crazy and I am _not_ a rapist. Why doesn't anybody believe me or even just give me a chance? Why is Mark _doing_ this to me?"

Dr. Parsons took the question to mean, "Why is Mark ruining my career and making trouble for me with the law?" Jesse had _meant_, "Why is my only father-figure not believing me, especially after all we've been through?"

They continued back and forth, question and answer, for another two hours. By the time their session ended, Jesse's ire, which had already been up, was now somewhere in the stratosphere, orbiting Earth.

He left the office, fuming, yet also feeling guilty about his justifiable anger. He wasn't accustomed to being angry. Hurt, yes. Sad, yes. But he spent a lot of time in his life ignoring all those unpleasant emotions and, most of all, rage. So when he stepped out and found Mark, his own, frustrated words surprised everyone—himself, Mark, Steve, Amanda—who'd cut her trip short after talking to Mark—and the people who passed the doctors' lounge.

"Why are you _doing_ this to me?" he yelled. "I didn't do anything! I would believe _you_! I never touched Lily Driver and I'm not sick and I'm not crazy and I'm not lying!" He pointed a finger at Mark. "You are _really_ going to regret doing this," he stated, then stormed out before his tears started to fall.

This was a bad thing to say. Everyone who heard it assumed he meant, "Something bad will happen to you for getting me in trouble." In actuality, Jesse meant, "When all this gets resolved, you'll feel terribly guilty for not believing me."

But that's _not_ what he said because if he'd waited long enough to say all that, they would have seen him cry.

"Do you—do you think he did it?" Amanda asked in a whisper. She hadn't known _what_ to think when they called her. Now, her hope in Jesse's innocence wavered, along with everyone else's. Especially Steve's; he'd loved Jesse like a brother, but _nobody_ threatened his father.

"Come on," Mark beckoned softly, "let's go see if the blood tests show anything."

They did not show anything. Neither did the CAT scan. Dr. Parsons told them that, given Jesse's intelligence and his history of getting involved in police investigations, he could very well be a sociopath.

From one person's point of view, everything was going famously.

* * *

"Amanda?"

The woman on the other end of the line didn't respond for a moment. "Jesse? Is that you? I can't—"

"Amanda, you have to listen to me. Please, _please_ just talk to me for a couple minutes." Jesse tried to temper his fluttering heart.

Seated in bed with a medical journal and the baby monitor, Amanda bit her lip and weighed her options. She'd held Jesse so dear; it hurt her to hear him pained. "What do you want to say?"

An audible sigh of relief greeted her permission. "Amanda, I—I want you to believe in me. I want you to know that I never touched Lily Driver. I never even met her! I'm not sure what's going on, but I need somebody on my side and you know me; you know I'm not capable of such a thing."

"But am I supposed to disbelieve Mark? He _saw_ you; he heard your voice. Denying it doesn't help anything."

"How _can't_ I deny it? I won't admit to something I didn't do! What if somebody's trying to frame me? Hasn't anybody thought of that?"

Amanda's eyes narrowed. This was getting ridiculous. She wouldn't let Jesse try and manipulate her. How could Mark possibly be _that_ wrong? "Dr. Parsons says you might be a sociopath and responsible for other crimes we don't know about. I'm not taking that risk with my life or my son's. Don't call me again."

She hit the off button and placed the phone on its base with an unsteady hand. It hurt her to say those things, but she meant them. After a few minutes, she called Mark and relayed the conversation. She also went into C. J.'s room and watched him sleeping peacefully—her complete antithesis.

In his apartment, Jesse threw the phone on the floor in frustration and punched his sofa. Amanda was his last bastion of hope in his friends. From here, he didn't know where to go.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for your kind reviews! To those who reviewed for the first chapter, please do so for this one. To those who are just getting started with this story, please review. To those who are reading this story but not reviewing—don't you think it's time you start? —your humble author**


	3. Damned

Damned

Jesse paced his apartment restlessly a couple nights later, paying no attention to the mind-numbing hum of his television. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He had no friends to lean on. He absolutely, under no circumstances, could call his mother and who knew where his dad was? He would never understand why an accountant was required to travel _that much_.

They still hadn't found Lily Driver. Honestly, Jess was hoping they would, since she could clear everything up. Obviously, all of this was an intensely bizarre case of mistaken identity and, once Lily saw him face-to-face, the whole mess could be put behind them. He was so desperate for that.

Finally, physically and mentally fatigued, he took a few Benadryl and sat down to watch…what was on? Oh, old episodes of _Hollywood Squares_. Well, if Paul Lynde couldn't bring him a little solace, who could?

* * *

Twenty minutes away, Mark slept fitfully. He tossed and turned, unpleasantly unconscious, but still unaware of the intruder who crept through his halls. He did awake, however, when he heard the sound of a gun safety click. The gun belonged to the person at the foot of Mark's bed, outlined in light from the bathroom across the hall. He looked familiar and dangerous, although the sleepy man couldn't tell much in the dim light and without his glasses.

"Hello, Mark."

Mark's eyebrows hit the roof. "_Jesse_?"

"Why did you have to ruin everything? I spent so long working my way into medicine and struggling through the long hours and sleepless nights to have you take it all away from me."

"Jesse, why do you have a gun?"

"Why do people _normally_ have guns? I'm here to shoot you—you, who just _had_ to take it upon himself to bud into my business."

"_Your business_? You sexually assaulted a patient!"

"She wanted it!"

Mark couldn't believe his ears. This was not the Jesse he knew. "Who _are_ you?"

"I'm the Jesse who's a lot smarter than you ever imagined, Mark. It's amazing how much you can get away with if you're best friends with the Sloan family. It's like a magical, "get out of jail free" card." He paused and his voice turned gravely more threatening. "Until now."

"Having spent so much time with us, you should know by now that killing me will only compound problems."

"I'm okay with that, because from here, I'm off to pack and leave the country." He aimed the gun at Mark's left knee and pulled the trigger. "This is for ruining my entire _career_!" he shouted. "One slip up and you take it all away from me!" Mark almost felt too shocked to be pained by the intense burning and piercing in his knee. The gun moved and fired at the doctor's right knee. "This is for putting me through an interrogation!" The other knee exploded and Mark gripped his sheets as a substitute for biting a bullet. His life flashed before him and he wished desperately that he could say goodbye to Steve and Amanda. "_This_," the soon-to-be-murderer sneered as he aimed at the other man's, "is for interrupting a perfectly good molestation." He fired.

As soon as the shot rang out, he shoved the gun in his coat and ran out the bedroom door. He raced down the steps and into his car, which he used to disappear into the night.

In mental and physical shock, Mark reached for the phone beside his bed. None of the three shots had killed him; he couldn't recognize then how odd that seemed. Instead, he dialed 911 and prayed he wouldn't die from exsanguination before the ambulance arrived.

"Jesse shot me," he told the operator, afraid he might not live to tell Steve. "And he molested Lily Driver. He manipulated all of us. You have to tell my son."

"Okay, sure," the operator promised, confused. "Just stay with me until the ambulance gets there. Okay? Sir? Sir, are you there?"

* * *

_Ring_.

_Ring_.

_Ring_.

Jesse blearily grabbed at his phone. Those Benadryl packed a wallop and for a moment, he thought the ringing might only be a product of a dream. It wasn't, however, although it seemed unusual to be getting a call at half past two in the morning.

"Yeah, wha'?"

"Dr. Travis, this is Roger Guiles; I'm calling from the fire department. We recently received a call involving a gas leak and are advising residents to leave the immediate area as soon as possible until the matter is under control. It shouldn't take more than a few hours. We're sorry for the inconvenience."

"No," Jesse assured him, pleased to hear a relatively friendly voice. He hadn't heard any of those in a while. "I understand. I'll leave right now."

"Thank you."

He hung up and scrounged around for his jacket. The late September nights had turned chilly, even as the days stayed warm. He grabbed his wallet and decided to head for the nearest diner, which brewed a relatively good cup of coffee. Locking his door, he headed in the direction of his car and fumbled with the car remote while trying to simultaneously slip into his coat.

Jesse looked up at the night sky and hated it. The stars shone with unusual brilliance in their black canopy; the moon smiled down on him with its crescent. Not a single cloud obscured the spherical majesty. But he wanted rain. He wanted nature to mirror his pain instead of mock him with perfection. Nature sucked.

Three things struck him as odd as he opened the driver's side door. The first was the obvious lack of other people leaving their apartments. Shouldn't everyone have been exiting for safety? The second was that the fire department called him in the first place; why didn't they merely knock on his door after arriving? The third odd instance was the large duffel bag, stuffed nearly to bursting, sitting in his backseat. He hadn't packed any bags lately. Yet, it was definitely his. Eyes narrowed in consternation, Jesse flipped his seat back, bent down, and opened the bag. There he found his own clothes, toiletries, personal items, and passport.

Jesse righted himself into a fully erect position and was about to head for his apartment when the sound of sirens caught his hearing. They didn't sound like fire engines, though.

They _weren't_ fire engines.

They were four police cars racing into the parking lot, heading in the direction of him and his car.

In less than a minute, Jesse Travis found himself surrounded by cops, all with their guns pulled and aimed at him. He didn't move. He didn't raise his arms. He didn't say anything. He merely gaped and clutched his passport.

"_Put your hands up_!" an officer with a bullhorn commanded.

His hands darted into the air and his eyes looked wildly around at the eight officers.

"_Get on the ground_!"

Jess didn't comply immediately. "What—what's going on?" he asked meekly.

Suddenly, and apparently out of nowhere, a cop rushed him and knocked him to the ground, causing his palms and knees to scrape against the pavement. He looked up to find…

"Steve!"

"Shut-up!" the detective snarled, pushing a knee into Jesse's back and reaching for a wrist to cuff. He roughly pulled both behind the doctor's back and secured them as tightly as possible without breaking bones. He hauled Jesse up by them and shoved him against a police car. "You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do you understand?"

"Steve, I—"

"_Do you understand_?"

Jesse felt too shocked to cry or protest. This unequivocally _had_ to be a nightmare. "Yes," he whispered.

"Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?"

He couldn't breathe. "Yes."

"You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?"

His wrists and palms and knees and back hurt. "Yes."

"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand?"

He hurt too much to be having a nightmare. "Yes."

"If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand?"

Why wouldn't Steve stop yelling and shaking him? "Yes."

"Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?"

He half expected rain to start falling and wash everything he held dear into the sewer. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you "don't know?" Just answer the question!" Steve enunciated his demand by drawing his ex-friend back and then slamming him against the car again.

"Whoa, Sloan," a uniformed cop warned, stepping forward. "Man, I empathize with you, but there are eight of us here; I can't vouch that someone won't side with him if he claims police brutality. Just reel it in, okay?"

Steve relented and stepped back, letting the uniform take care of Jesse. The numb doctor let himself be brusquely placed in the car. As the door slammed, he realized he couldn't control the horrible shaking that wracked his body. It was a sign of things to come.

* * *

Her Honorable Judge Bonnie Stephens presided over her courtroom with a certain unpleasant boredom. Truthfully, she thought eight in the morning was too early to have an arraignment hearing—or _any_ hearing for that matter. Besides, she'd only just had an argument with her youngest, Jonathan, about transferring high schools. He seemed to think the decision rested with him. Well, she and Mr. Stephens were _not_ paying $25,000 a year for him to attend one of the best schools in the state just so he could decide otherwise. _Oi, such chutzpa that boy has_, Judge Stephens (neé Fein) thought to herself.

"Okay, Jim," she said, turning to her clerk. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Sure thing, Your Honor. First on the docket is case LA32772: The State of California verses Jesse Travis."

"Bring him on up."

An armed guard walked Jesse, still in his clothes from _much_ earlier that morning, toward the front. There stood his lawyer, whom he didn't really know that well, since he'd never much needed his services. As Jess walked up to the judge, she commented favorably on the shoes her reporter wore.

"D'you waive the reading, Counselor?"

Tim McClark, Jesse's lawyer looked up from his paperwork. "Yes, Your Honor."

"How's your client plea?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

"All right. Let's take a look at this case," she murmured, taking the file from her clerk. She perused it and raised an eyebrow when she came across Mark's name. She'd heard of him. She turned her attention to the prosecutor. "What are the charges and the State's position, Mr. Reitman?"

"This was a premeditated attempt on the part of Mr. Travis to take the life of Dr. Sloan, which still hangs in the balance. If Dr. Sloan dies, this is first-degree murder and warrants the death penalty. Furthermore, he was found leaving his apartment with luggage, his passport, and a plane ticket to Brazil. We seek that the defendant is remanded into the custody of the State."

"Mr. McClark, what do you have to say?"

"Your Honor, my client is an upstanding member of the community who has strong ties to his place of residence." He failed to mention that the ties Jesse had were to the victim, the victim's son, and the victim's friend.

Bonnie didn't waste any time thinking over an obvious decision. "Bail is denied; the defendant is remanded into the custody of the State. Would your client like a preliminary trial, Mr. McClark?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"You got it. Jim, pick a day and a person."

Jim scrolled through the computer to look for the right time and the right judge, who wouldn't feel annoyed at getting more work from his. "It looks like Judge Morrison in two weeks will work."

"Two weeks? That's cutting it kind of close, don't you think?"

"It's Morrison in two weeks or Guthrie a week after tomorrow."

Bonnie cringed. She didn't need any harassment from Guthrie; he was always second-guessing the decisions of female judges. "Gotcha. Morrison it is." She struck her gavel on the desk and wondered if she could somehow get out of that evening's charity event with her husband. Maybe they could just skip it and spend a nice evening not thinking about kids and charities and business and law. If she played her cards right, she just might get lucky.

"What's the next case, Jim?"

* * *

A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews! They are greatly appreciated and treasured. I really appreciate those of you who gave me your frank, yet kind, opinions. Please continue to encourage me in this story. Thanks. –your humble author 


	4. Rat

A/N:

**_READ THIS_**:

This chapter is very dark. I wanted to warn you beforehand. Please be aware that it may be a little disturbing; however, it contains no explicit sex, some swearing, a little violence, and nudity. I did research before writing this and would be happy to answer questions if you have them. Thank you—your humble author.

Rat

Jesse had been spared certain traumas when they incarcerated him for supposedly poisoning his colleague nearly a year ago. Steve'd pulled some strings and kept his eye on the booking process, as well as keeping Jesse in _jail_, not _prison_. That semi-omnipotent presence wanted nothing to do with Travis now. Well, that wasn't entirely true; Steve just happened to let it be known that he would enjoy hearing any unpleasant escapades concerning this prisoner, if the guards happened to have some tales.

So, as they finished the verbal part of placing Jesse in Metropolitan Detention Center, the two men responsible for "welcoming" him felt a small amount of freedom in proceeding. Besides, the general modus operandi was to consider inmates guilty by association: They were associated with being in prison, therefore they were guilty.

Jess had already gone through being asked every intruding, intimate question about his life and physical health. As he walked through the corridors, his shackles clanging rhythmically and restricting his gait, he felt the uneasiness build. Soon he found himself at a door entrance, where the guards uncuffed his wrists and ankles. They ushered him into the room and closed the door.

He assumed this cold room with its miserable fluorescent light was some type of holding cell. Odd, though, that it had no cot or chair or toilet, but only a showerhead and what appeared to be a bank teller window.

"Okay," Jesse heard from one of the two guards now standing at the window. "Take off your clothes and place them into this bag," he instructed, sliding a black garbage bag through the partition and holding it there.

"_Take off_ _my clothes_?" Was he hearing this right? Could things be more mortifying?

"Don't argue! Just take 'em off. Geez!" Guard Number One exclaimed.

Jesse looked down at his clothes, then at the floor, searching it for the courage to obey such an obscene command. Slowly, he lifted up the hem of his soft, grey long-sleeved T-shirt. He felt like the main attraction in some sort of perverted gay strip show. Anticlimactically, the shirt fell to the floor. He carefully kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, slightly less unnerved at showing his bare feet. Then he stopped. He couldn't move. He couldn't take off his pants and underwear under the scrutiny of two male cops. He couldn't have done it even if they were two _female_ cops.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Aw," Guard Number Two mocked, "are you uncomfortable with the male body, _Doctor_? You sure weren't when you molested that girl a week ago. Now take off the damn clothes before we have to do it with force. Trust me, that will _not_ go down well."

His hands shook furiously as he tried to grip the button of his jeans. After a short battle, the button popped out and the zipper slid open easily. Nearly tripping on his own unsure feet, Jess managed to remove the pants and place them beside his shirt. Now all that remained were his boxers.

_C'mon, Travis_, he scolded himself. _You can do this. It's just like in gym class; pretend they're not up there watching you. All you have to do is remove this last piece of clothing, they'll give you the uniform, and you can go hang yourself with your bed sheets. No problem. C'mon!_

The boxers came off.

There he stood: Small, naked, and pale.

"Put 'em in the bag."

Jesse complied with the order and waited anxiously for them to drop his uniform through the slot. Instead, they instructed him to raise his arms. Slightly confused, he lifted them and bared the small tufts of hair underneath. Then they told him to bend his ears forward. This was getting strange, but he did that, too. He even spread his fingers and toes like they demanded.

"Now, lift up your penis."

"_What_?"

Guard Number One exhaled noisily behind the window. "Grab your dick, pull it up, and move it around so we can see if you've got anything hiding there. If I have to repeat anything else, I swear I will come down there and do the exam myself."

Jesse's unsteady hand reached for his reproductive organ and lifted it, feeling the shame course through him and enflame his face. Guard Number Two's comment sent every ounce of blood to his cheeks.

"Is your hand just shaky or are you getting horny?"

Guard Number One laughed riotously and slapped a table in their compartment, the sound of which made Jesse jump. As the laughter died down and no drugs or weapons fell from the doctor's groin, Guard Number One told him to turn around, bend over, and display his rectum for their view.

Knowing Guard Number One would make good on his threat to use force, Jesse shuffled his backside into their view. Fighting the urge to throw-up, he gently spread his buttocks and revealed something he didn't even like showing his GP. When they told him to cough, he prayed God would graciously let the whole ordeal end in his quick death. Instead, the guards tossed him a bar of soap and turned the shower on.

"Wash up, and be sure to get those hard-to-reach places."

Keeping his face away from those he now considered his tormentors, Jesse lathered up his body and cried into the water droplets.

* * *

Jesse's cellmate, a burly Caucasian man of indeterminate age, mostly ignored him. They'd been rooming together for three days and except for a tiny conversation at the beginning, neither had said more than three words to the other since. 

"What'ch'ya name?" he asked that first day.

"Jesse Travis. Yours?"

"Man, like, they call me Bull."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's what I'm hung like."

Jesse nodded. Should he have expected anything else? Ought he to have assumed "Bull" stood for the form Zeus took to woo Europa and thus create the Minotaur, famous in Greek mythology? What an absurd idea. "That's—uh—descriptive."

"What you in for?"

"They arrested me for attempted murder."

"You do it?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Yeah, me, neither."

"What'd they arrest you for?"

"Having two pounds of cocaine—but it wasn't mine." He shrugged and jumped onto the top bunk for a nap. "You got any drugs on you, man?"

"Uh…no."

That settled the matter and, as far as Bull was concerned, Jesse held no importance. So, for the last 72 hours, Jesse had avoided going to the bathroom until night, avoided showering, done his assignments as quickly and efficiently as possible, and tried his utmost to remain unnoticed. He spoke to no one, quarreled with no one, looked no one in the eye. He also barely ate and never slept; in that regard, it was quite similar to interning.

"God," he whispered that night, having relieved his bowels after assuring himself Bull was sleeping soundly. His voice made no sound beyond his own hearing. "God, please help me. We're not…we're not all that tight, I know, but _I didn't do this_. I don't deserve all this…_hell_!" He choked back a sob. He'd learned to cry without making a single sound since being incarcerated. The only drawback was the horribly painful lump it caused in his throat. "Show everyone I'm innocent. Please let Mark and Steve and Amanda know the truth. _Please_! Oh God, oh God, please help me!"

* * *

The doctors had replaced both of his knees which, considering the arthritis in them, would have been needed in a few years anyway. They repaired the surprisingly small amount of damage to his abdomen. Later, when talking to Steve, they recounted their pleasure at finding only .22 caliber bullets, which caused the least trauma. Steve and Amanda rejoiced when the elderly physician woke up the day after surgery. 

"I'm never gonna understand this whole ordeal," Amanda admitted, sitting on the edge of Mark's bed a week after his surgery. "How can anyone fake all the goodness that Jesse exuded? I mean, a sudden decision to molest and attack is horrible in and of itself, but to know that he _used_ us this whole time is…is…monstrous! I feel like I've been defiled."

Mark nodded his empathy. He'd loved Jesse. He'd loved Jesse as though Jesse were his _son_. Amanda and Steve had both loved him like a little brother. Everybody loved him.

"How're you feeling?" she asked, changing the subject.

"I don't know what I dislike more: The pain or the effects of the morphine. There's something very unsettling about feeling this loose."

"Might I suggest an epidural?"

The older doctor smiled warmly. "How _is_ C. J.?"

"Making life miserable; once a kid starts walking, it's like there's no stopping him. I've had to put anything valuable out of his arm's reach and lock up all the cupboards. He—" She stopped and frowned. "I just realized that I named him after Jesse. Every time I say his name, I'm including the initial from Jesse's." She started to cry. "What am I gonna tell him when he asks why I named him Colin _Jesse_?"

Mark patted her hand. "Tell him you named him for a different Jesse. Jesse James or Jesse…Jackson?"

She couldn't help snorting in laughter as she reached for a tissue. "My parents would kill me; mom's been contributing to the Republican Party for decades now, and dad's ethnically Jewish. Nice try, though."

He shrugged and offered a smile, which disappeared. "Steve's taking this especially hard. He's so angry. Every time he comes here I think he's going to punch a hole through the wall. I worry he might try to kill Jesse if they ever meet again."

"Well, I don't think they'll be meeting again for a long, long time. The case against him is pretty solid, so he'll be behind bars for quite a while."

Somehow that assurance did little to make Mark feel better.

"Jell-O?" he asked, proffering a cup of the green substance.

* * *

It took a lot longer for Jesse than it took for most inmates. He'd long ago mastered the ability of becoming invisible. Moreover, the Metropolitan Detention Center—a medium security institution—typically managed to keep prisoners in line and out of trouble. Not always, though. 

Jesse found himself alone in the laundry room, after everyone was done with the washing. He had the job of sweeping and mopping the entire area. When first given the assignment, he'd quietly thanked God for a chore that kept him from being around others most of the time. Actually, he'd spent a lot of time talking to God, lately. It was either lean on Him or hate Him and, frankly, Jesse needed the support more than the hate.

"Hey there," a fellow inmate said as he closed the door and placed a few parcels on the dirty laundry pile. He stood about Steve's height, though with a larger build. Judging from his face, he seemed around fifteen years Jesse's senior. "You got an awfully big task there for just yourself. You want some help?"

"No. Thanks."

He sat down on a table. "Name's Tim."

Jesse nodded, but kept his focus on the broom and keeping his distance. He moved rhythmically across the floor, sweeping up particles of lint that danced shadows on the tile. As he maneuvered his little pile into a circle, he sensed Tim get up and move in his direction. Jesse tensed and waited to scream.

"Here," Tim said, grabbing the dustpan and getting down on one knee. He placed its lip on the edge of the pile and let a hesitant Jesse sweep the debris into it. Then, he walked over to the trash. "See how much easier that is with two people?"

Jess wanted to smile. He wanted to show gratitude for the friendly act, but he could only muster a grimace. It _sort of_ looked like a smile. "I'm Jesse."

"Jesse. Well, Jesse, since I've done something nice for you, maybe you'd like to do something nice for me. Wha'd'you say?"

The young doctor backed up. This didn't sound good. "Like what?"

"Jesse, every man has needs. I know fifty guys here who can't go 24 hours without some kind of drug. I know men who absolutely _have _to have a piece of candy at least once a day. I'm a man who sees a pretty boy and can't live without him. And Jesse? You're a pretty boy."

The blood in Jesse's body didn't know whether to completely drain from his face or rush directly there. Horror gripped him as his worst nightmare materialized. He could live with getting beat up or knifed; but the thought of…he couldn't call it "rape" in his head…was beyond bearable.

"I'm n-not gay," he stuttered.

"I'm not, either, Jesse. I'm just a man with needs." He walked up to Jesse, who couldn't move back any farther, given the giant washing machines that blocked his path. Tim exuded calm, practicality, and reasonableness—Jesse's very antithesis at that moment. The much larger man smiled encouragingly. "Well?"

"I can't. I—I won't."

A look of intense anger rapidly replaced Tim's smile. He grabbed Jesse's shirt and shoved him up against the washing machine. "I don't take kindly to being told no! I helped you with your chores and I asked nicely. Now drop your pants or I will beat seven shades of shit out of you!"

At that point, the blood chose to drain from Jesse's face, but he made a decision: He would fight to the death before he would let Tim ra…assault him. Without much forethought, Jess kicked Tim's shin as hard as he could. From his position, he couldn't easily reach his attacker's groin, and the shin, he knew, can cause intense pain.

Tim cursed with as many expletives as he could think of and let go of his prey. Instinctively, Jess ran for the door and hopefully the safety of the guard down the hall. Just as he pulled the door back, a stronger hand pushed it closed. A split-second later, pain erupted in Jesse's left side as Tim's fist connected with ribs ten and eleven. The cracking sound reverberated in his ears and he would have cried out in pain except that the injury completely knocked the wind out of him.

"You little _shit_," Tim hissed, placing a solid kick to Jesse's own shin for payback. He then reached back and delivered a solid right hook to the younger man's face, splitting his lip open and nearly breaking his nose. He knocked Jesse against the door, then grabbed his shirt and an arm with both hands and threw him across the room and into the dryers. Jesse hit them and his whole world blackened. A moment later, when at least his senses of hearing and touch returned, he could feel Tim grabbing at his clothes and muttering obscenities. Just as his assailant was about to finish removing both of their pants, Jess heard the door burst open and a guard start yelling. Tim jumped back in time to be clobbered with a baton.

"I need backup," Jesse heard as his consciousness began slipping. "Play time got a little out of hand with Tim, again. Oh, and contact the medical department. Man, there's blood all over the place.

* * *

A/N (the second): Many thanks to those lovely and wonderful people who are reviewing. If you're reading this and not reviewing, you're being a very poor member of our fan-fiction community; you could learn a lot from those gracious enough to leave constructive comments. –your humble author 


	5. Evidence

_Evidence_

Jesse woke up in the jail's sickbay. He knew it was nighttime because they'd dimmed the lighting and there, across the room at a desk, sat the doctor, idly thumbing through a magazine. He looked bored and uncaring.

The patient lay in quiet agony, charting the various pains and injuries in his mind. Two fractured ribs, which pulverized his nerves with every breath. Given their location, he couldn't discount a lacerated kidney. A mid-grade concussion that responded painfully to every beat of his heart. A severely bruised shin, although he felt better knowing Tim had a similar one. A couple stitches on his lip and the stuffy feeling of dried blood in his nose. And why did his shoulder ache so—_ow_! He nearly yelped after his slight rotating motion made the joint explode. Apparently, Tim had also caused his shoulder to dislocate. Dr. They're-Not-Paying-Me-Enough seemed to have "popped" it back into place. Yet despite the intense, overwhelming pain that wracked his body, Jesse found solace knowing he hadn't been…attacked…all the way.

While he eyed the room, managing to keep his head and body still, a single thought plagued him:

Had he done it?

It had been hounding him ever since his arrest for Mark's attempted murder. Had he, somehow, gone crazy, molested a girl, and then tried to shoot his mentor and friend? Some people went insane and claimed to be Napoleon or stalked by aliens; could he be insane and committing heinous crimes without knowing it? He'd read a book recently about some guy who knew another guy who started a club for fighting and then tried to destroy the world, only the first guy found out at the end that _he_ was the one trying to destroy the world. Could that be him?

Or, as seemed more likely, was someone out to destroy him? Either way, he needed to find out, and that meant getting out of jail. He mulled the dilemma over and began to wonder if perhaps God was doing him a favor by letting him get sent to the infirmary.

"Excuse me," Jess called out, using something that sounded vaguely like his voice, except far away and small. "Doctor?"

The man at the desk looked up, looked longingly back down at his magazine, then stood. Why did these creeps keep getting hurt? They were already in jail—why make things worse? He towered over his prone patient. "Yeah. What'd'ya want?"

"Could I—could I please have something for the pain? Please? Something strong. Something that'll help me sleep. Please."

Dr. I'd-Rather-Be-Taking-The-MCAT-Again shrugged and headed for the medicine cabinet, pulling out his key. They kept the box locked up tighter than the prisoners. He pointed at each bottle as he read it. Codeine, Demerol, OxyContin, Vicodin, Percocet—aha! Oral Morphine, and a fairly high dosage, too. That ought to keep the little troublemaker out of his hair.

He returned with the pill and a glass of tepid water. He didn't feel like mentioning that the medication could cause stomach upset if taken without food. A few cramps wouldn't kill the patient.

Jesse gratefully accepted the medication and water, but began coughing as they hit his throat. Out of reflex, he held up a hand to keep the doctor from worrying and to indicate that he needed a minute. The doctor didn't care on either count. He just took back the cup and walked away as his patient aspirated. Soon, however, Jess gingerly laid his body down and closed his eyes to try and shut out the muted lighting.

Then he waited and played with the disintegrating tablet in his hand. He didn't have the first clue as to escaping form prison. It seemed like a Herculean task that could easily solidify his guilt in the eyes of the court and get him in further trouble. At the same time, he viewed it as his only chance.

As he weighed his options, the jarring blare of a klaxon went off. He jumped once but quickly regained his composure and pretended to sleep through the alarm. He could hear Dr. Malpractice grab the phone and call a guard.

"What's going on?…An explosion in the _kitchen_? But it's 1:30 in the morning! Is anybody hurt? Is there gonna be a riot?" He waited. "Fine. Go do what you have to. My only patient is out cold and'll be that way for a long time. Heck, use _all_ the guards, if you want." He hung up. "Geez," he muttered. "I gotta find a different place to work."

_Thank you, God_, Jesse thought excitedly. _Thank you! Oh, Thank you! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!_

He gave the situation a couple minutes, then opened his eyes and forced them to look as far left as they could. Dr. Lost-To-The-Dark-Side seemed absorbed in his task of ignoring patient care. With a steadying breath, Jess began his act. This needed to work perfectly.

"Uhn!" He cried, thrashing every so slightly. "_Uhn_!"

The doctor shot out of his seat, startled again. He moved closer to the patient, who seemed to be either having a nightmare or in significant nocturnal pain. He eyed Jesse carefully, trying to diagnose from five feet away.

"Head," Jesse panted. "Pain…won't stop." He began crying a little, which actually made his head ache _more_. He sensed the lax physician move close enough to touch and, in fact, the doctor laid his hand on Jesse's aching arm. This was his moment. Trying not to overanalyze the matter, Jesse reached back and sent his fist flying into Dr. Deserved-It's jaw with all his might.

The doctor, whose real name was Ken Foley, fell back against another bed, hit his head, and lost consciousness. Jesse felt mostly guilty for striking another person, but that didn't stop him from wasting no time. As fast as his head, ribs, shin, and shoulder allowed, he made his way from his bed to Ken, who had the keys to the medicine cupboard. Jess procured a syringe, alcohol pad, and bottle of Secobarbital from the cabinet. A nice, healthy dose of a barbiturate would keep the doctor sleeping until morning. He also drugged himself with a small shot of a much milder pain killer.

After throwing away the medical paraphernalia, Jess struggled to move Ken from the floor to his former bed, as well as trade clothes with the man. It took upwards of twenty minutes and hurt like hell, but he finally managed. Now all he had to do was get past the guards…after grabbing a bottle of codeine.

He peeked out the door and saw only one guard, napping. He'd never seen that guard before. Jess donned the doctor's trench coat and hat and thanked God they hadn't put him in a maximum-security prison. Shaking almost out of his skin, he approached the sleeping man.

"Excuse me," Jesse said in his most authoritative voice. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I've been called away on an emergency. The patient is sound asleep and won't wake up until morning. Is it all right for me to leave?"

"Huh? Oh. The patient'll be okay without you, then? Sure, whatever."

Apathy had never bred opportunity for Jesse before. This was a refreshing change of pace. He made his away around until he found the personnel exit. There he came across another guard who looked extremely occupied with firemen and the minor explosion in the kitchen. Jesse hid his swollen bottom lip by keeping his hand over his mouth and the guard waived him through after a glance at the stolen ID card.

And then…he was outside. Jesse simply could not believe he had escaped from prison. It was the first thing to go right in two weeks. Steve would be so impressed! He'd—

Jesse's happiness fell and this time nature chose to empathize. Rain beat steadily against the pavement, as it would for most of the night. He shuffled along into the darkness, pulling Ken's coat closer around him for protection. Eventually he found his way into the steam tunnels where he swallowed a codeine dry and curled up to wait for daylight. He thought it might never come.

* * *

Jesse recognized consciousness creeping up on him, but not cognizance. He moved slightly amidst the folds of the coat, ignorant to the dampness or the rat that nuzzled his hair. He sensed extreme pain, but couldn't distinguish if it came from his dream or reality. The blare of a truck passing overhead ripped him out of his somnolence. 

"_Oh_!" he cried. Everything ached. The codeine had worn off and now the various injuries all screamed for attention. Primarily his shoulder and ribs competed for the title of Most Pain Ever Felt. Jesse gave momentary consideration to consuming all the pills in the bottle, but resolved not to. He couldn't die yet. He couldn't die in peace until he cleared his name.

After popping another analgesic, Jess psyched himself into getting up. He'd planned the matter while trying to fall asleep the night before. First, he would go to his apartment and look for answers. Then, he would apply whatever he found there. Actually, he hadn't got very far along in the planning; the sound of critters scampering across the cement occupied most of his attention.

Going on Part One of Plan A, he found his way to the surface and took the bus toward his apartment complex. He felt immensely guilty for using Dr. Should-Be-Waking-Up-Soon's money, but he needed cash to get around, and that shot of Seconal had to be worth at _least_ $37.50.

Grey clouds drifted overhead as Jesse stepped up to the building. He figured he'd just break in through the sliding glass doors, which offered little security. He headed toward the back, where the little decks were, when a sound startled him.

"Hey, Dr. Travis."

Jesse spun around and came face-to-face with Sammy Rothman. The Sephardic-looking little boy gazed up at his neighbor innocently, waiting for some sort of greeting.

"H—hi, Sammy. Shouldn't you be at…school?"

"Half day."

"Right."

They watched one another. Jesse expected the boy to start screaming for help and run for the safety of home, but apparently no one had told the curly-haired youth of Jess's crime. The staring continued until Sammy broke it.

"My mom says you're a faygelah."

_What did that mean_? _Did that mean murderer_? _Crap_! "Wh—what's a—a faygelah?"

"It's 'cause guys are always going to your apartment. Is that one cop guy your boyfriend? My mom says it's a shondah, 'cause my auntie thinks you're cute."

Holy cow. This boy and his family thought he was gay and wanted to know if Steve was his boyfriend. Jesse wanted to brech then and there.

"No, that cop's not my boyfriend."

"What about that other guy?"

"What other guy?"

Sammy shrugged. "I dunno. He's got brown hair and he's about as tall as you and he always goes in through your glass door. He only comes when you're not here, but he doesn't take anything. I know; I watched him. What's his name?"

Jess couldn't answer. He didn't know the trespasser's name, but the boy's revelation helped inflame Jesse's conviction that he was being set up. "I can't talk right now, Sammy; I have to go look around my apartment. Oh, and I'm not a…fla…flagel…"

"Faygelah."

"Yeah."

As the boy departed, Jesse jimmied open the door and walked into his messy apartment. The police had been there, gathering evidence. His computer, filing cabinet, and safe were missing; papers littered the floor, having been glanced at and then discarded as unimportant. He stepped around them and began looking for evidence of his own as to the identity of man who apparently stalked him.

He peered carefully at the lock on his front door for signs of tampering. He looked at his phone, wilting plants, books, and few knickknacks for any bugs or listening devices, although that seemed extraordinarily unlikely. Dazedly, he walked from room to room, randomly touching and staring at things for a clue. Perhaps he thought he might find a piece of paper with the name and phone number of the burglar on it. He finally realized there were no clues to be found twenty minutes later, when he also noticed his unsteadiness.

Jesse hadn't eaten much in prison. He didn't consume the breakfast and only ate the bread and fruit at lunch and dinner. Besides having no appetite, he suffered almost constant nausea and occasional diarrhea from stress and anxiety. His last meal was lunch yesterday—an orange and a slice of bread. He couldn't keep running on adrenaline and fear.

Glancing through his cupboards—an all too painfully familiar act—he spotted a jar of applesauce. Perfect! That was exactly what the BRAT diet called for, although he'd have preferred a banana.

Jess sank onto his couch with the jar and a spoon. After a few bites, he allowed himself the luxury of noticing the apartment's features: His sofa, entertainment center, kitchen table, coffee table. He ran his hand lovingly over the couch's fabric, remembering nights of falling asleep there with Steve—_platonically, with an entire cushion separating them_—after a basketball game. He set down the applesauce and buried his face in the sofa, starting to cry. He loved his sofa! He hadn't enjoyed anything comfortable or soft or _his_ since the incarceration.

Jesse roused himself up after a few minutes, fighting the urge to just keep crying. He wiped away his tears on the sleeves of Ken's coat. Casting a longing glance around his home and shoveling a couple more bites of applesauce into his mouth, Jess headed back for the deck door. He'd found bupkis, but that didn't mean he would give up. If only—

"If you move another step, I will put a bullet in your brain."

Jesse stopped instantly. He'd rounded to the front of the building and there, only twenty meters away, stood Steve by his police car, gun out and ready. The doctor couldn't see his former friend's face very well; aviator glasses obscured his eyes and the sun coming up from behind him blinded Jesse. The venom in his voice, however, was unmistakable.

For his part, Steve was surprised at what he saw. Jesse had grown thinner, paler, weaker, and sickly. _Good_. Even better, his hunch had been right that Jesse wouldn't just try and leave the country; the detective had placed his bet on staking out the apartment complex and won.

"Don't shoot me," Jesse called out, raising his hands in surrender.

"Why shouldn't I? You don't deserve to live. Do you know the kind of pain and agony you put my father through? You _shattered his kneecaps_!"

"Steve, I swear to you that I didn't do that! I would never hurt Mark! I would never hurt _anybody_!"

The detective lifted his sunglasses to get a better look at Jesse. "Guess what we found on your computer…your personal journal. It was very nice of you to keep a record of the crimes you committed and how you really thought about us. That'll make awfully handy evidence—not to mention the kiddie porn, you sick bastard."

Was he dreaming? In the Twilight Zone? A parallel dimension? "I don't have any journals on my computer and I would _never_ look at child pornography! Steve, someone is setting me up; a man has been breaking into my apartment for…actually, I don't know how long, but somebody wants everybody else to think I'm a criminal. Please!" he cried, reaching out to the friend he'd come to love like a brother, "I'm begging you to believe me! You _know_ me!"

"I knew the person you were pretending to be."

Jesse felt so frustrated and angry and hurt and sad. He wanted to scream and cry at the same time. Before he could respond, however, a large black van pulled up in front of him. A male voice yelled at him through the tinted windows.

"209 Canary Road! You'll get answers there. Now run!"

Jess hesitated for only a moment, then hightailed it for the road as quickly as he could. The van trailed him slightly, providing momentary protection from Steve, who had to reholster his gun, get in his car, insert the key, turn it on, and follow. By the time he made it to the road, the van was speeding down the street and the fugitive was nowhere in sight.

As luck would have it, however, Steve happened to hear "Canary Road" and the first number in the address. That meant he could narrow the search to a single block of a street not far from his current location. With that in mind, he headed out, prepared to do _whatever_ necessary in apprehending the escapee.

* * *

A/N: Oh, you wonderful people and your wonderful reviews! They're so great to get! Thank you very much and _please_ keep them coming. I'm counting on you guys to tell me what you think and how I can improve. Thanks a lot. –your humble author 


	6. Persecutory Complex

_Persecutory Complex_

Jesse stepped cautiously into the rundown house. Someone had boarded up the windows years ago, and with good reason: The place looked about as safe as Sampoong Department Store, only less attractive. The grass grew to calf length, although the weight of the individual stalks forced them to bow. In all fairness, though, weeds made up most of the lawn.

He sidestepped a large hole in the small porch after making his way through the overgrown fence's gate and along the similarly wild sidewalk path. Finally within, the interior looked no better. The best thing that could be said about it was that the dirt distracted from the cracks, holes, and missing key pieces of architecture, like support beams.

His hands shook, his heart beat wildly, and if he weren't dehydrated, he would have sweat profusely. Jesse's mind chastised him for his stupidity and warned him to go back to the safety of the prison where, at least, if he got beaten senseless, someone might condescend to give him basic triage. But he persevered, because he would rather die clearing his name than live like he had been. Actually, the thought of dying seemed very nearly appealing.

Being careful not to step on the obscenely large dead fly right in his path, Jesse moved quietly around the expansive first floor, finding nothing except dirt, dust, dead insects, and code violations in room after room.

He eventually made his way up the stairs, testing each step carefully before applying his whole weight to it. On the second floor he found an empty room, an empty room, an empty room, an empty room, a bathroom, an empty room, an empty room, an empty room, and a room that stripped him of his breath and impressed the gravity of the situation on him.

"Holy cow," he whispered, turning in a slow circle to look at all the pictures of him on the walls. An impressive-looking computer and some other gadgets sat on a desk in the corner, surrounded by the strewn containers from various fast food establishments and—ooh. Heath wrappers. He loved Heath bars.

Tearing himself from thoughts of food that once seemed important a lifetime ago, Jess settled his gaze on an armoire shoved into the corner. Stupefied, the young doctor moved in its direction and opened the doors. He gasped and stepped back, perhaps afraid that the contents might consume him.

"Oh, wow," he breathed, inching forward. "I _am_ in the Twilight Zone."

He reached out and touched a blond wig reminiscent of his own hair. His hands fell down to caress a black stethoscope and the lab coat it rested on. The glimmer of laminate caught his eyes and he turned over an ID card to find…that it belonged to him.

"The coat on the left is what I wore when I shot Dr. Sloan."

Jesse jumped and spun 180 degrees to face the gentleman in the doorway. He had a gun, a bag, and a look of supreme satisfaction.

"What is going on?" Jesse demanded breathlessly, stepping back and bumping into the armoire.

"You don't know? You don't remember me? Bruce Gilchrist? Or my _wife_?"

Jess shook his head, which made the room spin a little. Once his surroundings settled, he looked at the very vaguely familiar man: About his height and weight, but maybe a decade and a half older. Although he held his gun steady and gazed composedly at the doctor, his eyes didn't match the façade; they were hateful and hungry for retribution of some kind. This man wasn't entirely sane.

"I've spent six months planning this and you've spent two weeks living it and you don't know who I am? You can't even guess?"

"I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment! Just cut through the crap and tell me what's going on!"

"Your powers of deduction are abysmal. Allow me to simplify: You're responsible for my wife's agonizing death. Therefore, I have made your life a nightmare. I set up the whole molestation thing—don't worry, though, "Lily" is actually an actress, as is her "mother," and Mrs. Orła-Bukowska, who kept you occupied. I would never hurt anyone sexually, though I don't put that past you. I shot Dr. Sloan. I bought your plane ticket, packed your bags, and made that phone call about the gas leak. I even went the extra step and put child pornography and a fake journal on your computer. I've spent the last six months photographing you, watching you, listening to you, taping you, mimicking you, and framing you. Never mess with a computer special effects artist, Dr. Travis, because we can make anything look, sound, and feel real." The man sounded terribly proud of himself. He viewed his revenge as exquisite both in planning and execution. Had he known everyone better, his ability to fool the Sloans and Amanda would have given him excellent cause to brag.

"But…why?" He still couldn't remember _Mrs_. Gilchrist. Given all the patients he saw, it was nearly impossible to recall one from seven months ago. "What on Earth could I have possibly done—"

"You don't even _remember_? We came in because she was having stomach pain and you diagnosed her with ovarian cancer—I mean, not that day, but a little later. You told her she didn't really have a chance, but offered some new _wonder drug_ as a possibility."

The sun rose in Jesse's mind and he finally remembered everything. Mrs. Gilchrist, a sweet and amiable woman just entering her forties, had come in with classic symptoms of ovarian cancer. Jess ran the usual diagnostics and discovered stage three malignant tumors and, essentially, Mrs. Gilchrist's death sentence. It pained him to look into her warm, crow-footed eyes and tell her. When they begged him for some help—some _hope_—he harkened back to a discussion only days before with a pharmaceutical rep. She'd touted some new cancer treatment that, when combined with radiation and chemotherapy, improved the chances of recovery.

_Un_fortunately, the medication also significantly intensified the side effects of the traditional treatments. Jesse told them of this before sending them to a gynecological oncologist, who implemented the suggestion at once. The poor woman suffered agony for two months before succumbing to death's mercy. Not even morphine could alleviate her misery. Shortly thereafter, the general consensus among physicians was that the harm outweighed the benefit. The drug company promptly pulled Sylomax off the market.

"I tried to tell you," Jesse implored.

"You didn't say it would be that bad."

"None of us _knew_ it would be that bad."

Bruce advanced on his quarry. "Y'know that _loneliness_—that _despair_—that you've been feeling since this began?"

Jesse merely nodded; no words could describe the anguish he'd felt for the past two weeks. He had never felt so broken. Not from his mother. Not from his father. Never during his entire childhood or adolescence. Not until his friends had turned their backs on him.

"Well, that is how I've felt _every single day_ since you killed Lauren. Every morning, I wake up to find her half of the bed empty. And every night, I lay down without her beside me. This," he screamed, waving his gun around the room, to emphasize Jesse's whole situation, "is barely even a _taste_ of what my life has been like."

The man's face grew slightly wistful. "We were high school sweethearts, y'know. We married right after graduation and I never even thought about looking at another woman. In college, when other guys went out to party with the sorority girls, I knew I had the perfect woman waiting for me at home. I had her. I _had her_!"

Jess knew this would not end well. "What do you want from me? You've already taken everything I have."

"Not _quite_ everything. Lauren wasn't just my love and hope and happiness—she was my life. So I want yours. That's why I brought this bag. I have—let me see here—handcuffs, a syringe, and strychnine. I had to do a lot of research to find the most painful poison out there that I could fairly easily get my hands on; strychnine's a doozey. I read that the constant convulsions alone can cause death by exhaustion, assuming you don't asphyxiate first."

"I know how it works."

"Lovely. Now sit in the chair by the desk and put your hands behind it."

Jesse walked slowly, contemplating his method of escape. He couldn't fight very readily given the previous night's injuries, but death by strychnine sounded horrendous. He needed something heavy. He sat down. He got an idea.

As soon as Bruce kneeled down to cuff Jesse to the chair, the doctor bolted up with the seat in his hands and broke it against his assailant's body. Well, he didn't _actually_ break it, but that had been his intent. Jess reached down for the gun, cried out in pain as his shoulder protested, then picked up the pistol with his other hand. He dashed out of the room and headed in the direction of the stairs, conscious of the footsteps behind him. Just as he got to the door, he heard what must have been Bruce's spare gun go off behind him and miss. Gritting through the constant stabbing in his ribcage, Jess exited and prayed for a miracle.

* * *

Jesse made it to the middle of the path that led from the gate to the porch. When Steve appeared at the gate, the doctor stopped right in his tracks. He couldn't go any further, and a glance over his shoulder told him he couldn't retreat. So there he stood, the most pathetic and endangered Monkey in the Middle.

"Put down your weapons!" Steve yelled to Jesse and Bruce.

"Steve, he wants to kill me!"

"I don't blame him; I'd put a bullet in you myself if I could." He said it so venomously that Jess had to struggle to hold back tears. His friend really wanted him dead.

_No_! Jesse thought angrily. _Don't think of him as your friend_!_ He's _not_ your friend anymore_; _you don't have friends_.

"He molested my daughter, officer!"

"I did _not_! Just go in there and you'll see that this man has been stalking me for six months. He's got a room full of surveillance equipment and pictures. Go in there and see that I'm telling the truth."

"He deserves to die!" Bruce screamed, never taking his aim off Jesse. The two men stared at each other, although Jess kept his gun at his side. Steve might hate him; he might want him dead; but Steve didn't break rules and would never allow him to get shot.

While each man stood stock-still, waging his own personal, internal battles, backup arrived. And in that singular moment, as footsteps and voices approached, all thinking stopped.

Jesse pivoted to try and ascertain the source of the noise; Steve reacted with his training and shot the younger man in the stomach. Perhaps he didn't aim to kill because he still felt fraternal feelings for the doctor; maybe he chose the stomach because that's where Mark got shot.

Mr. Gilchrist, acting on his own instinct, fired twice at Jesse's back mere thousandths of a second after the cop. Steve, hearing the second report, lifted his gun and shot Bruce in the chest.

Time ceased.

It took Jesse a moment to register getting shot. The incident reminded him of falling down the stairs in second grade. His elementary form just lay at the bottom of the staircase, dazed, before he started screaming. He'd bitten right through his bottom lip back then and, as Jesse fell to his knees, he noticed this time that, just like nineteen years ago, his mouth filled up with blood. It dribbled from the corners of his lips and matched the bright red that now drenched the front and back of Ken Foley's nice Oxford shirt. He vaguely registered three intense burning sensations and—what were those emotions? Shock? Sadness? Fear? …Relief?

The last thought Jess had before collapsing face first into the cement, was how no amount of dry-cleaning would get out the stains.

* * *

A/N: Was that a good cliffhanger? Thanks for the reviews. I beseech _all_ of you to please leave _constructive_ reviews for me. They're so important! Again, thanks a lot. –your humble author 


	7. Personal Horror

_Personal Horror_

As soon as Jesse and Bruce hit the ground, Steve yelled for a couple of ambulances while he and a few other cops surged forward. They found the barest of a pulse on Jesse and a cold smile on Mr. Gilchrist, who looked peacefully dead. Steve amended his request to one ambulance and the coroner.

Some uniforms rushed into the house and began actively searching out trouble, evidence, and anything they could shoot; they hadn't seen so much excitement in weeks.

"Mac!" Officer Kenmar called to his partner, Officer McMahon, on the second floor. "Dude, you gotta see this; it's, like, weirdo-central."

Mac walked in, stopped, looked around, looked at his partner, then nodded. Together they walked out to tell Detective Sloan and maybe find out if he knew anything. They figured he'd be free since they'd heard the ambulance come. Besides, the room definitely called for CSIs—and probably a psychiatrist.

"Hey, Detective, we think you oughta see something."

"What is it?"

Mac thought for a moment. "It's…weird."

Steve rolled his eyes but followed the younger cops upstairs. Trying to hold back an exasperated sigh, he stepped through the doorway and stopped. Suddenly he couldn't breathe.

"What is this?" he asked hoarsely.

"That's what we wanted to know. This is the guy you shot, right? I mean, the one on the sidewalk, not the guy on the porch. I heard somebody say you knew him; d'you know what all this _Fatal Attraction_ stuff is?"

"Good movie," Kenmar commented.

"I don't know," Steve stammered.

"You okay, Detective?" Mac asked when he noticed his superior looking ashen and distant. Was he hyperventilating? Was he…leaving the room? "So, should I cordon this off for the CSIs? Sir?"

Steve leaned against the wall in the corridor, trying to catch his breath. Jesse's words came back to haunt him. "_This man has been stalking… I'm telling the truth_." He clearly remembered the wildly beseeching tone and imploring eyes of his once best friend. He also remembered his own remarks. "_You don't deserve to live… I knew the person you were pretending to be…I'd put a bullet in you myself if I could_."

What the hell had he done?

* * *

Steve walked the halls of Community General agitatedly, checking his pager every few minutes, as though he might get a message without hearing the beep. He needed to hear _some_thing—_anything_—from the crime lab. Were Jesse's fingerprints there? What was all the equipment? When were the photographs taken? Come on! It had been eight hours!

"Steve?"

The detective turned to face his father, who sat in a wheelchair. "What? Has the department called here?"

"No." Mark bowed his head. He felt as nervous and haunted as his son, but couldn't display those emotions as keenly, what with the Vicodin running through his veins. "I just wanted to see how you're doing."

"Friggin' fantastic."

They remained silent for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Dr. Karen Marlow, the OR doctor who'd worked on Jesse, interrupted them.

"Gentleman," she stated, getting their attention. "I thought you would like to hear the news on Dr. Travis." She grimaced in that way only doctors can. "I really don't know if he's gonna make it; he flat lined twice during surgery and we had to defibrillate both times. I have him in ICU where he's listed as critical.

"He lost about two-and-a-third liters of blood internally and externally. The bullets to his back shattered three ribs and pierced both lungs; the bullets, thankfully, missed his heart by about a quarter of an inch on either side and never touched his spine, although there was some slight damage to the transverse process of the vertebrae attached to his left third rib. The abdominal wound did a major number, bisecting his right kidney, going through the duodenum, grazing the abdominal aorta, and lodging in his left kidney. Thank God the bullet was a .22; if he'd been hit with anything bigger, I doubt he would have made it to OR. Naturally, there was massive hemorrhaging, not to mention the injuries from earlier, which already caused blood loss, swelling, and made my job more difficult. He had a very recent lacerated kidney, which I suspect resulted from his fight in prison; whoever treated him there should be stripped of his or her license.

"Now, you don't need to worry about handcuffing him to the bed at the moment, since he's on a respirator, which means he's tied down, and he's under sedation. The armed guard was placed in his room as per procedure, however. I hope he was scheduled to be executed, 'cause that's the way it's looking."

The two Sloans nodded gravely and thanked Dr. Marlow. She walked away to check on her patient again. She couldn't wait to get home to her kids and hug them.

Before Mark or Steve even had time to look at one another after watching the OR doc leave, Steve's pager went off, shocking them both from their reveries. The youngest Sloan raced for the nurse's station and the phone, while Mark wheeled as quickly as he could.

"What've you got?" Steve demanded, ignoring the annoyed huff of that floor's head nurse. Instead, he pointed to his father and the desk's other phone so they could both listen.

"Yeah, so, that whole room was _covered_ in Mr. Gilchrist's fingerprints, but we only found a couple of Mr. Travis's," Patrick Skeen drawled, toying with a rubber band. "We found some hairs on the clothes in the armoire that resemble Mr. Gilchrist's hairs. At the moment, we're led to believe that he solely occupied the room and for a significant length of time, given the buildup of trash. At the moment, we're working on processing the hairs for DNA, running ballistics on the bullet from Mr. Travis that the hospital delivered, trying to find out more on Mr. Gilchrist's past, and dating the pictures you discovered at the scene."

"What's your initial opinion?"

"Eh, it certainly looks like this Gilchrist guy was stalking Travis for quite some time. It could be because Travis molested his daughter or any number of other things. But I'll tell you, there was some crazy stuff going on there. Oh—look, I gotta go; the pizza's here and we've been working like mad to get you this stuff. I'll call you when we get more information, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He hung up and followed his dad to the doctor's lounge, but spoke before Mark had a chance. "Jesse is an escaped convict who is accused of attempted murder. He will remain nothing more until evidence proves otherwise and a judge clears him of the crimes. Dammit, dad, I'm not gonna feel guilty about shooting him!"

"Son, you felt guilty the minute you pulled the trigger."

Steve suddenly looked wild. "What? I thought he was gonna shoot me! I didn't know that he was turning to look at the noise! I didn't think!"

Mark's brow furrowed in surprise and confusion. He'd meant that his son felt bad for shooting a friend. "What are you talking about? Steve, why did you shoot him?"

Steve buried his face in his hands. "Oh, dad. He spun around so quickly and I just…I just pulled the trigger. I thought he was responsible for shooting you and hurting that girl. I didn't see him as a criminal; I saw him as something even worse than that."

"Somebody who would hurt me and betray you?"

Steve nodded, then looked up at his dad with needy, conflicted eyes. "Look, could we just hold off on the guilt until more evidence comes to light? I can't take this right now."

They agreed to stave off any conversation until Patrick called with more information. Unfortunately, a lack of conversation did not equal a lack of fear for either man that they had crucified a dear and innocent friend.

* * *

In the days that followed, Patrick and his crew uncovered a wealth of evidence that not only proved Jesse was innocent, but that he had been setup by Bruce Gilchrist. Steve wanted to do all the investigating himself, but his superiors deemed him unfit, given his closeness to the victim/criminal and, thus, lack of detachment. The young doctor didn't know anything about the police investigations; he stayed in a coma for nearly a week.

Topping the lab's list was Bruce's computer. It contained audio recordings of Jess on the phone, scanned photos dating to six months earlier, and a copy of the journal on Jesse's computer, as well as the child pornography. Moreover, and much to the lab techs' delight, it had a Word document outlining Bruce's entire plan. The man was _methodical_, to which his former employers at Paramount Studios would readily attest. They stated that, based on the work Mr. Gilchrist did for them and the excellent quality he consistently achieved, he would certainly be capable of utilizing his talents to impersonate someone else. An audio file contained the exact speech "Jesse" gave Mark before shooting him, spliced from numerous different recorded telephone conversations. The Word doc even contained the phone numbers to the actresses who played Lily, Mrs. Driver, and Mrs. Orła-Bukowska; they thought they were making a film,

What really cinched it for the police and courts—what proved Jesse couldn't have shot Mark—was a trace on Jesse's phone records. It showed he received and answered a call to his home only ten minutes after the crime; it took him at least twenty minutes to drive to Mark's house. Everybody would admit that Jesse was extremely bright and gifted, but he couldn't be in two places at once.

The courts dropped the charges. Similarly, Mark contacted the Medical Board of California and requested they immediately reinstate Jesse's certification and completely clear his name. After learning the circumstances, they complied without delay. If Jesse woke up, he would have nothing to worry about except healing.

And a horrible, empty despair.

* * *

Jesse became vaguely conscious of himself. He sensed that he existed, to some degree, but it took a few moments for that awareness to notice anything else. Slowly, sounds intruded; he could hear quiet chatter that seemed far away and the beeping of something, although he couldn't register quite what, and footsteps.

The crash of a tray threw him into a greater sense of reality and he discovered that his whole body ached dully, muted by drugs. Good grief, he could hardly think past the gentle opiate waves that tried to lovingly tug him under their surface. Oh, they only wanted to help him. They caressed his mind and whispered sweet nothings to his subconscious but, like the advances of an unwanted lover, he fought them. No, he didn't _want_ to feel so out-of-control. He wanted reality; it lurked just behind the drugs' kindly façade.

Suddenly, the medicine stepped aside and Jess crashed into his life.

_No_! He thought, cognizant of everything. _No_!_ I don't want to wake up_._ Oh, take me back, sleep_!_ God, why haven't You let me die yet_?_ I'd like You to know that I resent not being dead; if You can giveth life, I know perfectly well that You can taketh it away_._ Wait_._ Is there someone in my room_?_ How long have I been here_?_ Am I paralyzed_?_ No, I can move my toes_._ Can I open my eyes_?_ Yes_._ It's dark in here_._ Is it nighttime_?_ What is that down there_?_ Someone _is_ in my room_!_ Is it a guard_?_ Is it Steve, come to finish the job_? _I'm thirsty_.

Jesse opened his mouth to ask for a nurse who could alleviate the dreadful yearning in his mouth, but his words came out a bit jumbled. "Nurse" came out as "uh," but it served to wake the sleeping figure at the foot of his bed.

"Jess? Are you awake?"

Terror attacked the young doctor. He recognized that voice and that silhouette. Tightness gripped Jesse's chest despite the morphine drip and the heart monitor registered an increased pulse. _Pretend you're still asleep_, he told himself and closed his eyes.

Too late, though. Steve was already running to get a nurse, who paged the doctor before jogging into her patient's room. Steve didn't follow immediately; he had to call his dad and Amanda, but he reentered the room shortly.

"Hi," a middle-aged woman announced as she turned on the room's light. "I'm Nurse McGowan. How are you feeling?"

Jesse didn't know how to respond. She sounded so…not hateful. "Thirsty."

"I'll bet. Let me get you a little glass of water, but be sure to drink it in tiny sips; we don't want you overdoing anything, especially with that stomach injury." In a moment, she returned with the cool liquid. She checked his vitals and made notes in his chart while he devoted all his attention to the beautiful water.

Steve stepped into the room, but Jess simply stared at the blue plastic cup.

"Well," Dr. Robbins exclaimed as he stepped through the door, "it looks like our miracle patient is awake! Welcome back to the real world, Dr. Travis." Dr. Travis didn't respond. "How're you feeling? Any pain?"

"Not really."

"Good, good." He pulled out his penlight and examined the patient's eyes. "You look pretty well. Tell me, do you know where you are?"

"Community General."

"Very good. Do you know what happened to you?"

Jesse struggled to draw in a shaky breath. "I…got…shot." He glanced at Steve's waist, to see if the detective was going to pull out his gun to put another bullet in him. No, nothing. Yet.

"Excellent job. Now, I'm gonna ask you some of the routine questions—you know the drill. Who's the President?"

"Bill Clinton."

"What do an apple and an orange have in common?"

"They're both fruits."

"Please touch your right ear and then the tip of your nose…mm-hmm, good. Well, your brain is certainly intact; we didn't suspect any brain damage, but you've been out of it for a good while."

"How long?"

"Five days." He smiled at Jesse. "Now I think it's time you got some more sleep. You have a great deal of recovering to do and I can tell you're tired. We'll work on the rest of the stuff tomorrow."

Jess grabbed for Dr. Robbins's coat sleeve, though he couldn't quite force his fingers to latch on. "Please," he whispered. "Can I…can I be alone in here? Just me?"

Dr. Robbins glanced from his patient to Detective Sloan and shrugged. "Certainly." He walked towards the door with Nurse McGowan and a reluctant Steve in tow, then turned off the light. "Sleep well. Page the nurse if you need anything."

Dark solitude engulfed Jesse and he gloried in it.

* * *

A/N: I hope this story doesn't go overboard on the angst. Let me know if I'm laying it on too thick, okay? My deep gratitude for your reviews and please, _PLEASE_ leave me more constructive feedback. Thanks.—your humble author 


	8. Emotideath

_Emotideath_

Amanda rocked the bassinet and wept. She couldn't stop crying. Honestly, it was getting a bit ridiculous. She'd feed C. J. and cry. She'd bathe C. J. and cry. She'd look in the mirror and cry. She'd glance at the picture of her and Jesse at one of the hospital's many fundraiser dinners and start bawling.

She knew Jesse hated her. He wouldn't let any of them into his room or accept their phone calls. She had given Nurse McGowan a card to give him but, according to the nurse, he never opened it. He didn't throw it out. He didn't tear it to shreds or find a lighter to torch the thing; he merely placed the envelope in a drawer by his bed and turned over to sleep. His apathy pained her more than outrage ever could. At least if he yelled at her, she could say something in return.

Amanda's own words, actions, and stupidity plagued her. She might as well have looked him in the eyes, snaked a hand around him, and stabbed him in the back, then _twisted_ the knife, grinding it against his fragile spine while maintaining eye contact.

Eye contact. Never letting her gaze drift from his blue neediness. He always looked at her so hopefully, so lovingly, so desirous to please. She knew from the minute she met him that Jesse was the type of person who sought approval and acceptance. He wanted friends to love him. She didn't quite know why; he didn't quite seem eager to share that. That was okay, of course. Mark was the only person she trusted with the knowledge of her adoption.

Trust! How would Jesse ever trust them again? How could he ever look at her without veiled suspicion that she'd persecute him once more? She had, in essence, purposefully destroyed an amazing friendship.

Finally, Amanda couldn't take her silent weeping any longer. She raced to her room, fell on her bed, grabbed her pillow, and sobbed loudly into it.

If only she knew how many times Jesse had done the same.

* * *

Mark watched Laurel and Hardy absentmindedly. They just couldn't entertain him. Nothing could. Jesse haunted every thought at every moment in every situation and the older doctor couldn't even find solace in television's mind numbing glow.

He had _never_ been _so_ wrong with such _terrible_ consequences. Logic reminded him repeatedly that he, like Amanda and Steve, had been duped, abused, and manipulated. He'd only taken the necessary precautions when he'd called the police and the certification board. He'd have had to do the same with _anyone_.

_But you didn't have to damn him so quickly_, Mark told himself. Why had he _done_ that?

Honestly, it seemed crazy to think of someone going to those lengths to enact revenge. But Gilchrist had done a marvelous job and truly possessed the skills to pull off a convincing frame. Mark had just felt so…well, seeing "Jesse" sexually preying on some poor young "patient" had greatly affected him. It pushed just the right buttons to override his logic and make him completely distrustful of Jesse.

Mark finally noticed that static on the television. The VHS had obviously finished and rewound itself some time ago. Mark eased himself off the davenport—pain still lingered in his knees—and ejected the video. He decided to make himself a nice mug of hot cocoa; maybe that would soothe him.

He couldn't talk to Jesse, because the young man wouldn't let them anywhere near him. So Mark had only his imagination to fill in the blanks of what Jess had gone through. The sleepless nights; the tears; the inner thoughts; the days in prison; the loneliness. He'd heard about the strip search and attack in jail; both made him nauseous. Steve recounted arresting Jesse outside the poor man's apartment and Mark felt both horrified by what Jesse had gone through and distraught over the hatred Steve was harboring for himself. Nobody had come through the ordeal unscathed. Everybody hurt. Yet, did their hurt really matter in comparison to Jesse's? Hadn't they _caused_ his hurt?

Mark pulled the hot milk out of the microwave and dumped it down the drain. It wouldn't help.

Nothing would help.

* * *

Steve lay on his bed and listened to _Stairway to Heaven_ repeatedly. Its sorrowful recorder sounded empathetic to his internal turmoil. Despite his self-loathing, Steve couldn't help being slightly awed by Zeppelin's musical talents. _Stairway_ and _Kashmir_ almost beat out Pink Floyd's _Dark Side of the Moon_ in his mind, but he couldn't get past Floyd's awesome lyrics, reverb, or the way the entire album seemed to be mapped out to the _Wizard of Oz_. Then again, it wasn't really fair to compare _two_ of Zeppelin's songs to an entire album by Pink Floyd.

Jesse would have had a few comments to make on Steve's internal debate. If they were still talking and Steve hadn't nailed his former best friend up on a cross.

He couldn't shake the sound of his own voice spewing hateful words at Jesse. He knew those had cost him any chance at redemption. There was no way to take those back. But the real shame came from what he had never said—what he'd thought and felt. The _only_ thing that had kept him from killing Jesse at any point during the ordeal was Steve's own need to abide by the law. He'd imagined so many ways of making Jess pay for all his crimes. Those seething, hate-filled mental movies barely sated Steve's homicidal yearnings.

A breath hitched in his throat. _He'd been _gleeful_ when he heard about Jesse's strip search_.

And now, he could do nothing to atone for his sins. Jesse wouldn't even acknowledge him. Did that really matter? How could Steve possibly atone for the heinous crime of betrayal? Telling himself that Bruce Gilchrist was responsible provided no mitigation. For crying out loud! He was a _detective_!

He ought to quit the force.

Finally, Steve turned over and resigned himself to Jesslessness for the nth night in a row, only to wake up in the morning and think of new ways to try and get through to Jesse.

* * *

Jesse encountered a problem over the next few days. All the tests turned out fine and both Dr. Robbins and Dr. Marlow marveled at his escape from death. Sadly, he couldn't escape the awful, consuming tiredness. _So tired_! He slept most of the day and night, though not very well; every few hours he awoke suddenly and then had to struggle back to sleep.

He didn't eat well, either, as the days passed and he moved from a clear liquid diet to solid, bland food. Granted, the hospital food hadn't appealed to him _before_ all of this, but even hunger pains produced no appetite. When cajoled, he swallowed a few bites of oatmeal or yoghurt or soup and drank the little carton of juice. Soon, the doctors promised him, he could go back to regular foods. They said it so excitedly, as though they somehow suffered along with him. It would make no difference, however; he simply wasn't hungry.

And concentration! Forget it. It usually took him a couple seconds to comprehend Dr. Robbins's questions, and then a few more to formulate an answer. Every word Jesse spoke came out in a soft, flat, defeated tone. Yes, _defeated_. That was a good word for it. It explained why he spent his waking hours mulling over his own loneliness and lack of worth. He thought about death and a means of achieving it several times a day.

Indeed, by the time they put him on normal foods, he exhibited nearly every sign of classic depression.

"I think we need to talk," Dr. Robbins stated a week after his patient had awoken. "You don't eat; you don't smile; you don't talk; you don't _anything_ except sleep, and the nurses have told me it's a light and restless sleep. Now, you're progressing at an excellent rate, but this depression could set you back. I'm worried about you."

Jess heaved his eyes up to meet the doctor. "I'm fine."

"You're not "fine" and we both know that. I would be happy to bring in a psychiatrist who can help you work through the pain you're struggling under. Given the last five weeks, you probably could use a little extra help. Wha'd'you say?"

"I'm fine. I'm just…tired."

Dr. Robbins felt vast amounts of sympathy for his young patient. He wanted to help Jesse work through his pain. "Yes, you're tired; you're always tired. But you're scared, too. Scared and angry and sad and _hurting_. You've got to confront that, or it will eat you up and destroy you."

Jesse looked down at his blankets and tried to think of an answer. Slowly, his eyes trailed up the man to again meet his gaze. "It already has."

The doctor hid his sigh. "Have you thought about talking to them?"

"Who?"

"The people you won't let come in here. The people who ask me for a report every day. The people who look through the door's window when you're sleeping. Your friends."

"I don't have…friends. Please. I'm tired. Can I go to sleep now?"

Dr. Robbins shrugged. He felt tired, too. "Sure."

* * *

One day short of three weeks. A fortnight and six days. A score. Twenty days. Yes, he had been in the hospital for twenty days. He could eat normal foods, although he didn't, despite the lovely treats Dr. Robbins and the nurses brought in. He could move around well and Dr. Robbins promised him that, if he convalesced at home for at least a month, he could leave after the fourth week.

A problem happened on that twentieth day, however, when Dr. Robbins determined to personally take on his patient's severe depression. He decided to help Jesse confront his personal demons by conveniently not being present and making sure that the floor's staff was conveniently not present if, by chance, Steve, Mark, and Amanda were to—conveniently—show up. Thus, when Jesse woke up from yet another nap and unpleasant dream, he found the three of them staring nervously at him.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, scooting back in the bed, away from them. He discreetly searched around for the button to page the nurse.

"Oh, Jesse," Amanda lamented, torn apart by his thin frame and haunted eyes. She reached out to softly touch his leg and gasped when he jumped back. Shocked by his fear, she brought the offending hand up to cover her mouth.

"Jesse," Mark began, careful not to touch the boy. "Jess…we can't even begin to understand what you're going through. We want you to know we're here for you; we want you to get better both physically and mentally." He smiled as warmly as his trepidatious state would allow. "Let us help you."

Jesse couldn't meet their gaze. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as blood coursed through it faster and faster. He could actually feel the reverberations increase in number. The problem, he realized, wasn't only fear. He didn't only fear Mark, Steve, and Amanda; he…raged against them. Rage! That's what he felt! "Please go," he uttered under his breath, trying to control the feelings.

"We're not gonna go!" Steve scolded. "You need to come to terms with what happened or it'll kill you. We're not leaving you to slowly die."

Jesse's apprehension fell away as his head slowly turned upward to look at Steve. When their eyes locked, the detective felt his own blood suddenly chill a little.

"You won't let me die? You won't let me _die_? _You shot me_! You _wanted_ me to die! Don't you remember? I'm the sexual predator who shot your dad. I was just pretending to be your friend. I don't deserve to live. How did it feel when you threw me to the ground and arrested me? How did it feel when you **_shot me_**?" he yelled. All three bowed their heads, but Jesse wasn't done. "And you!" He pointed at Amanda, who was crying softly. "You can't talk to me because I might attack you or CJ, remember? And Mark. Didn't you see me hurting Lily Driver? That's what you told the police and the medical board. Why would you even want to associate with me?"

"Jesse—"

"No, dammit, _no_! None of you believed me. You _disowned_ me. What you really did, though, was prove what I should have known all along: I don't have friends, and the only person I can trust in this whole world is myself. Now unless you plan on shooting me again or taking me back to jail, get out of my room." Nobody moved. "_Get out_!" he screamed, pointing at the door.

At this point, Dr. Robbins and a few nurses rushed in and bade the stunned visitors to go. Jesse fell back against his bed, utterly drained and horrified at both himself and his former friends.

"Go and get me ten CCs of Diazepam intravenous," Robbins discreetly told a nurse, then sat down beside his patient. "Jesse, are you okay?"

"Fine," he replied weakly. "Can't I just be alone, please?"

"In a minute. Your heart rate and BP are extremely elevated at the moment and I want to make sure this won't adversely affect you too much. You wanna tell me what happened?" he asked as he motioned for the nurse to administer the drug.

"No."

Dr. Robbins closed his eyes as a sigh escaped; for a few minutes, he didn't say anything. "This is all my fault," he finally admitted. "I…told the nurses to let them come in."

"You _what_?"

"I'm sorry! I thought…I thought it might help you feel better if you could reconcile with them—maybe it would lift your depression. Your body's healing; your mind isn't. You can't see it, Jesse, but there's barely any life left in your eyes."

Jess fought against the encroaching hypnotic. The medically trained part of his brain registered the presence of a drug, but it lulled his awareness. "There isn't any life because…I'm already dead," he mumbled before slipping into sleep.

Dr. Robbins complied and left with all the regret of a caring physician.

* * *

"Where are you _going_?" Dr. Robbins demanded the next day as his most confounding patient pulled on a pair of scrubs. "What—are you planning to go back to work or something?"

"No," Jesse stated flatly. "I'm planning to leave."

"And where are you going to go?"

Jesse spun around to face his doctor, although it caused some minor dizziness that he successfully masked. "I'm going anywhere but here. I'm leaving. Maybe I'll go home; maybe I'll go back to Illinois; maybe I'll go to _Timbuktu_. As long as it isn't in this room, in this hospital, it's an option."

"How are you gonna get anywhere, hmm?"

"I already called for a taxi."

"Jesse, this is ridiculous! You very nearly died and now you're leaving the hospital AMA. At the very least, you need people to help you during your convalescence at home—that'll take at least another month!"

Dr. Travis headed for the door, but stopped to face Dr. Robbins. "I am leaving. Neither you nor anyone else may disclose this to Mark, Steve, or Amanda. For once, _somebody_ respect my right to privacy."

With those words, he departed for the taxi, which drove him to the bank, where he withdrew a thousand dollars in cash. He then headed for his apartment where he changed and made his plans.

First on the list, he packed a bag with clothes. He had to get out before anyone started pounding down his door. How could he keep from being found for a while? Where could he go? _Home_-home? Canada? Definitely not Timbuktu. Wasn't there anywhere calm and peaceful nearby that they'd never think of?

Of course! Jay Beck's cabin in Twin Peaks. It was only about an hour away and the man owned a quaint cabin smack in the middle of his _25_ parcels. Jay had befriended him when he first started at the hospital, but was currently in Sierra Leone with his wife doing a yearlong mission trip. He wouldn't mind, and it afforded ample privacy in such a peaceful setting. It was a Godsend.

The decision made, Jess got in his car and drove to Wal-Mart, despite having an intense hatred for the store, and bought toiletries and survival basics like peanut butter, bottled water, candles, and matches. He felt fairly certain the cabin wouldn't have electricity, heat, running water, or telephone service. Despite the drawbacks, it sounded like paradise.

Finally, before driving to Twin Peaks, Jess decided to apply a little of the cunning he'd picked up recently. He drove to the train station, bought a ticket to Illinois with his credit card, then left. It wouldn't confuse anyone for very long, but it gave him enough time to get settled in the cabin. Let Steve, Mark, and Amanda be the confused ones for a while.

* * *

A/N: I am VERY sorry this has taken me such a long time to update. I hadn't expected it would be so difficult to get down the gang's feelings. Let me know how you feel the story is going and what I can do to improve. Is the cabin too dues-ex-machine-y? Many thanks. –your humble author 


	9. Agape

_Agape_

As Jesse unpacked his items, he tried to take a deep breath of the crisp air, but had to stop when it felt like a couple of little men were hurtling pickaxes at his chest. Still, everything looked amazing! The little cabin rested next to stream, about eight feet in width and four feet deep.

He couldn't see anyone or hear anything except the sound of the stream and various forest creatures. Absolutely perfect. Idyllic. Paradise.

Carefully, Jesse unloaded his duffel bag and supplies. He knew, medically, that he shouldn't have left the hospital. He'd suffered three gunshot wounds and various other injuries. If he'd been his own patient, he would have stapled himself to the bed. But Jess had a willpower everyone seemed to underestimate and he would _not_ leave this paradise unless there was somewhere better to go.

A couple of birds called to one another from their respective trees.

"_D'you see that human_?" Bird A asked Bird B.

"_Yeah. Awfully goofy- looking things, those humans are. No feathers, no fur, no scales, and no exoskeleton. How do they get on_?"

Bird A shrugged her wings.

These two birds spied on their new human neighbor over the next couple weeks. They watched him wash in the cold stream and then go inside to try and get warm. He always seemed a little cold, except when he took brisk hikes for hours on end. He tried to chop wood once, but quickly dropped the axe and grabbed his chest. He didn't fish, per se, but instead used a net to hold a fish in place while he looked at it, then quickly released the creature, his curiosity satisfied. He spent a lot of time wandering the massive property's edge and watching others. These activities seemed to satisfy him, although Birds A and B couldn't understand why he never picked up any bugs to eat or gathered twigs for his nest. Stupid humans; they seemed wholly incapable of providing for themselves.

"_He seems sad_," Squirrel N commented to the birds while he foraged around. Squirrel knew more about humans that Bird A or Bird B. He liked to work people for food in the heavily populated areas. "_Maybe he's sick or has fleas. Does he do anything except walk around_?"

"_Sometimes I see him sitting with paper and a pencil, but he only stares into space. Not long ago, I saw him standing for hours with a knife, just looking at it. Then he walked back in and didn't come out until morning._"

"_He cleans a lot_. _He puts a book in front of his face from time to time, but I don't think he reads it_."

"_His expression never changes. In fact, you know who he looks like? He looks like Deer F after that hunter killed him_."

"_He doesn't look like Deer F_! _He doesn't even have a tail_!"

Bird B rolled her eyes. "_I'm not saying that he looks like _**a**_ deer_!_ I'm saying his expression looks like that of a _dead_ deer. Really, Bird A, I'm not daft_."

Squirrel N found a pleasant little nut and stashed it in his mouth. "_Does he do any hunting_?"

"_Not a bit. In fact, I saw him herd a spider from the cabin out onto the porch—he didn't even step on it_! _It tasted delicious_."

"_Maybe I should take him a nut_." Squirrel considered this and weighed the pros and cons. "_No, I need them all. I think I'll go up and ask for a treat. That always makes the human children happy._"

"_You just want a cookie, Squirrel N_."

"_I need all I can get for this winter, you know_." He scampered down the tree. "_Be seeing you_!"

"_Bye_!" Birds A and B called down.

* * *

On the open porch, Jesse gazed despondently at the pad of paper in his hand. It was blank. He thought that, maybe, if he could just free write, he might be able to sort through the jumble of emotions that necrotized his whole being. Unable to chop them, he kicked hunks of wood as hard as he could and felt anger so powerful it drove the pain in his body from his mind. He hiked over hills and past streams, kicking up fallen leaves and disturbing indignant fauna, all the while feeling such self-loathing that, at one point, he contemplated ending it all with a knife. For _hours_, he stood outside the cabin, carefully balancing the blade in his palm, trying to work up the nerve and shed his reservations. Finally, when the light had faded, he shuffled back inside, defeated.

Jess looked up and saw a squirrel approaching. The animal crept forward, warily eyeing the doctor. It made him want to laugh a little; then it made him want to cry. This animal feared being hunted and killed.

Jesse could relate.

The squirrel stopped about five feet away from the porch's bottom step and sat on its haunches. Its gaze bore into the human's and it turned on all its charm. Suddenly, Jesse couldn't resist getting up, going inside, and fetching the peanut butter and a stick. He scooped out a big portion and slowly, tentatively handed the stick to the squirrel.

He felt a major thrill watching the small creature manically consume the peanut butter, holding the stick with its paws. It devoured the food as quickly as possible, afraid perhaps, that Jesse would suddenly snatch it back and then inflict injury. Once the squirrel finished, it ran into the fading daylight and out of sight.

He watched the critter retreat and found himself overwhelmed by its existence. He considered how it lived alone and then died alone. His chest grew a little tight and suddenly his eyes began to smart a bit. His lip quivered ever so slightly.

Jesse burst into uncontrollable sobs.

He cried so hard that he couldn't seem to breathe and the lump in his throat felt about the same size as a kumquat. After a couple minutes, he actually fell on his back from his sitting position and curled into a ball. His weeping echoed in the forest and caught the attention of the various wildlife.

He hadn't cried since the short spell on his couch. He wept for his loneliness and lost life, for his physical pain and his mental anguish. He replayed the last eight weeks and grieved over every day. He cried until his head ached and he couldn't think coherently enough to remember _why_ he was crying.

Totally exhausted, Jess fell sound asleep on the porch.

* * *

Jesse suddenly heard the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. When he opened his eyes, he found himself sitting at the table in the cabin. The room was _freezing_! He tried to control the shivering, but it wracked him mercilessly.

The notes repeated themselves. Dum dum dum _DUM_.

Jess realized the sound was from someone knocking at the front door. Amazed that anybody could get two different musical notes from a door, he moved in its direction and turned the knob.

"Hello," the man on the other side greeted calmly. He stood a respectful distance from the door, having obviously knocked, then stepped back. His manner displayed a patient and gentle countenance, despite the suit and tie. The doctor's forehead creased. A suit and tie? In the middle of a forest?

"Are you lost?"

"No, but thanks for asking. May I come in?"

"_Come in_?" Jesse balked. "I don't even know you!"

The man smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence. "Of course. I'm Gabe Agape. I'm here to see you on the matter of your life."

Jesse's mouth dropped open a little as he attempted to assimilate this information. Without knowing why, he stepped aside dumbly and allowed Mr. Agape into the room. The suited gentleman nodded approvingly as he surveyed the cabin. "Very nice," he commented before sitting down at the head of the table. "Won't you join me?" he asked, motioning at the chair at the table's foot.

"What's going on?" Jess asked as he seated himself. Had he really just let an oddly dressed, complete stranger into his residence in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere?

"That is an _excellent_ question, Dr. Travis. And before you start interrupting me and wanting to know how I know your name, let's just say I'm privy to a lot of normally classified information in your head."

"Am I dreaming?" Jesse demanded.

Gabe chuckled faintly. "Am I dreaming," he repeated. "Yes, you're dreaming. I mean, I just knocked with Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. I can guarantee the Becks didn't install that feature. But the all-important question is, as you asked, "What's going on?" I'm here because, at the moment, _nothing_'s going on; at least not where you're concerned.

"Oh, Jesse," Gabe drawled sadly, cutting right through the doctor's heart with two words. This man in his dream seemed to know so much of Jesse's pain—to _feel_ it, even. Yet he possessed a certain unbiased perspective that Jess lacked.

"What do you want?" Gabe asked.

Jesse stared sadly at the floor, his tired eyes wide with tears. "To die," he cried softly.

"If you wanted to die, you'd already be dead. You've had numerous opportunities. And if you were _meant_ to die," the stranger stated strongly, "I can guarantee we wouldn't be having this conversation. "Now, what do you _want_?"

"This to never have happened!"

Gabe looked down at the table and sighed. This wasn't going particularly well. "What do you want, barring what is simply not going to happen?"

Jesse brought his hands up and grasped his head in frustration. What did he want? _What did he want_? To be left alone? No! He'd had enough of that over the past two months. He needed companionship, friendship—love. "I want to be loved again," he finally admitted in a hoarse whisper. "I have family. I have friends. But I never had anybody as close to me as Amanda, Mark, and Steve. Family has to love you, but they don't have to like you. Friends have to like you, but they don't have to love you. They did both. And then…they stopped. I just want to go back to the way things were before."

Gabe Agape smiled tenderly. "And so your solution is to hide here?"

"I can't just pretend like nothing happened!" Jesse yelled. "Steve shot me, Amanda disowned me, and Mark never believed me! They—"

"Were as manipulated as you."

That instantly quieted Jesse's rant. He knew this, of course, but it was different to hear somebody say it out loud. Gabe continued, "You know that Steve is very protective of his father. They have the kind of bond that most fathers and sons can only dream of. I think you know that if _anybody_—Amanda included—had been set up like you, they would have faced a similar wrath. And, naturally, Amanda has the responsibility to protect her son and put him first; that's a parent's job. She can't sidestep that. Not for you. Not for Steve. Not for Mark. As for Mark, can you really blame him for being so expertly manipulated? He probably would have begun to suspect the truth if Bruce hadn't _shot him_.

"You were the most horrifically and painfully hurt in this whole ordeal. But you weren't the _only_ one."

Jesse looked up from his hands. "What can I do? I can't just go back and act like everything is okay. _Nothing_ is okay. Things will never go back to the way they were."

"Perhaps not, but you haven't got any hope here. You'll never find the love you're looking for without others; you'll never be at peace until you forgive and embrace them." Gabe looked down at his watch and exhaled heavily. "You had better wake up now. You're still outside and your core temperature's already down to 91 degrees. Get inside and start a fire; it won't be too difficult. And for Heaven's sake, get some medical care; you've been misusing your already abused body from the moment all this started. Oh, and see to some therapy, won't you? Don't go with Dr. Parsons, though; man, what a weirdo."

As soon as the last word left Gabe's lips, he vanished. A moment later, Jesse awoke on the porch, colder than he'd ever felt in his whole life (and he'd lived through power outages caused by ice storms). Groggy, slow, and shaky, Jess stumbled inside and groped around for a flashlight. As he set about starting a fire and bundling up in the large, down comforter from the master bed, he contemplated the significance of his dream.

Leave his exile and forgive? Go back and get help? Repair himself and his relationships? They all sounded so logical and _necessary_, but a part of him struggled against the wonderful advice. He didn't particularly want to forgive, even though he recognized his anger as misplaced and purposeless. Quite honestly, he wanted to punish Steve, Mark, and Amanda by denying them his friendship. Besides, he felt safe, if not happy, at the cabin.

A thought occurred to him as he stared sadly at the fire that kept trying, and failing, to climb up the stack: He was carrying on Bruce Gilchrist's work and doing a great job of it. His actions not only punished his friends, but himself, too.

As the fire's warmth lulled him into sleep, he finally decided, with a heavy heart, to give his life—and the people in it—another chance. If he didn't, he knew, he would have to die, since it would mean his heart already had.

* * *

A/N: 293 viewed last chapter. Twenty have the story on alert. Seven reviewed. C'mon, guys! I need to know what you think! I **especially** want to know for this chapter. Too corny? Too short? Help me out here, please. Many, _many_ thanks to those who reviewed. –your humble author. 


	10. Forgiveness

_Forgiveness_

The day after his revelation, Jesse packed up his things and drove to the hospital. He ignored the surprised looks of his colleagues and stayed his course for the pathology lab. When he entered, Amanda looked up and saw him. A gasp escaped her and she could only stare at her gaunt, nervous friend. Slowly, he walked up to and, after a moment's hesitation, put his arms around her neck and started crying. She instantly embraced him back and the two sobbed against each other without regard for the corpses in the room.

No hug had ever felt so good.

Why, though, had he chosen Amanda as the first person with whom to reconcile? Truthfully, Steve still scared him horribly and Mark represented Steve. Besides, Amanda exuded motherly warmth and gentleness—when she wanted to, of course—and Jess craved that.

Having taken this first step, he sought out Dr. Robbins, who cheerfully demanded to readmit him, given, as the doctor pointed out, Jesse's (a) exhaustion, (b) malnutrition, (c) weakness, (d) earlier hypothermia, and (e) need to have his previous injuries evaluated. Not only did Jesse comply, but he asked for some lunch.

Mark and Steve showed up and Jesse greeted them cautiously, not yet ready to let down his guard, especially with Steve. Everyone walked on eggshells with everyone else, but at least they were walking.

Days passed and Jesse started seeing a counselor to help him work through his massive issues. The therapist, Dr. Stiller, assured him that given time and hard work, he could find his way back to the life he'd known so long ago. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast," Dr. Stiller told him. "This isn't the kind of thing you'll ever look back on and laugh at, but it is something you can learn to draw strength from."

* * *

A cold, grey evening found him staring out the window of Mark's house as January came to a close. The sun, obscured by blankets of dull clouds, began setting into the ocean. Jesse watched the waves claw at the sand and then get pulled back into sea and he wondered if they were trying to escape the frigid water. _Give it time_, he assured them. _The sun'll return, stronger and ready to warm you up_. _It's never failed you before_.

"Jess?" Steve interrupted softly. They'd begun to mend their unbearably frayed friendship, but anything sudden on the detective's part still caused Jesse to recoil. "Dinner's ready. You gonna come and eat?"

"Yeah."

"Dad said you guys took care of those train accident victims today," Steve commented as they walked towards the dining room. "D'you hear they think it might have been sabotage?"

Jesse's eyes widened in surprise, interest, and mortification. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Some eyewitnesses saw an explosion before it derailed and the manifest says it was carrying loose gems that haven't been recovered. Maybe…" He didn't quite know how to phrase this. It had once seemed so natural. "Maybe you can give me a hand when dad starts budding in? You know he will and…well, you're not half bad for a doctor-detective."

Jess stopped and looked at his friend. He smiled slightly and nodded. "I'd like that."

"Great, because I suspect that, whatever my dad gets us into, we're gonna need somebody who's really persistent and pestering. Y'know, the kinda guy that just _won't quit_. Doggedly obnoxious."

"Yeah, I know. It's a good thing he's got you to help in that department."

Both men smiled as they sensed another aspect of their lives returning to normal.

* * *

A/N: Well, this is the last chapter. I am wholly unsatisfied with it and the previous one, but the revising process will take me a good long time and I don't want everyone to have to wait. I'm sorry it's not what it could have been. Time and hard work will improve this story, but I guess you'll have to deal with what I can offer at this point. –your humble author. 


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